The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Vol. II., by William Wordsworth This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Vol. II. Author: William Wordsworth Release Date: April 26, 2004 [EBook #12145] Last Updated: April 9, 2018 Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORDSWORTH, VOL. II. *** Produced by Jonathon Ingram, Clytie Siddall and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team! HTML file revised by David Widger
What's in a Name?C
Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Cæsar!D
To Robert Southey, Esq., P.L., Etc., Etc.
My Dear Friend—The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its Manuscript state, nearly survived its minority:—for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favourable reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the Literature of our Country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavours in Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached; and that the attainment of excellence in it, may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses.
The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledgment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural; and I am persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as a Master in that province of the art, the following Tale, whether from contrast or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony of affectionate admiration from one with whose name yours has been often coupled (to use your own words) for evil and for good; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health may be granted you to complete the many important works in which you are engaged, and with high respect, Most faithfully yours,
William Wordsworth.
Rydal Mount, April 7, 1819.
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| There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon; But through the clouds I'll never float Until I have a little Boat, Shaped like the crescent-moon. And now I have a little Boat, In shape a very crescent-moon: Fast through the clouds my boat can sail; But if perchance your faith should fail, Look up—and you shall see me soon! The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring, Rocking and roaring like a sea; The noise of danger's in your ears, And ye have all a thousand fears Both for my little Boat and me! Meanwhile untroubled I admire The pointed horns of my canoe; And, did not pity touch my breast, To see how ye are all distrest, Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you! Away we go, my Boat and I— Frail man ne'er sate in such another; Whether among the winds we strive, Or deep into the clouds we dive, Each is contented with the other. Away we go—and what care we For treasons, tumults, and for wars? We are as calm in our delight As is the crescent-moon so bright Among the scattered stars. Up goes my Boat among the stars Through many a breathless field of light, Through many a long blue field of ether, Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her: Up goes my little Boat so bright! The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull— We pry among them all; have shot High o'er the red-haired race of Mars, Covered from top to toe with scars; Such company I like it not! The towns in Saturn are decayed, And melancholy Spectres throng them;— The Pleiads, that appear to kiss Each other in the vast abyss, With joy I sail among them, Swift Mercury resounds with mirth, Great Jove is full of stately bowers; But these, and all that they contain, What are they to that tiny grain, That little Earth of ours? Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth:— Whole ages if I here should roam, The world for my remarks and me Would not a whit the better be; I've left my heart at home. See! there she is, the matchless Earth! There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean! Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear Through the grey clouds; the Alps are here, Like waters in commotion! Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands That silver thread the river Dnieper; And look, where clothed in brightest green Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen; Ye fairies, from all evil keep her! And see the town where I was born! Around those happy fields we span In boyish gambols;—I was lost Where I have been, but on this coast I feel I am a man. Never did fifty things at once Appear so lovely, never, never;— How tunefully the forests ring! To hear the earth's soft murmuring Thus could I hang for ever! "Shame on you!" cried my little Boat, "Was ever such a homesick Loon, Within a living Boat to sit, And make no better use of it; A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon! "Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet Fluttered so faint a heart before;— Was it the music of the spheres That overpowered your mortal ears? —Such din shall trouble them no more. "These nether precincts do not lack Charms of their own;—then come with me; I want a comrade, and for you There's nothing that I would not do; Nought is there that you shall not see. "Haste! and above Siberian snows We'll sport amid the boreal morning; Will mingle with her lustres gliding Among the stars, the stars now hiding, And now the stars adorning. "I know the secrets of a land Where human foot did never stray; Fair is that land as evening skies, And cool, though in the depth it lies Of burning Africa. "Or we'll into the realm of Faery, Among the lovely shades of things; The shadowy forms of mountains bare, And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, The shades of palaces and kings! "Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal Less quiet regions to explore, Prompt voyage shall to you reveal How earth and heaven are taught to feel The might of magic lore!" "My little vagrant Form of light, My gay and beautiful Canoe, Well have you played your friendly part; As kindly take what from my heart Experience forces—then adieu! "Temptation lurks among your words; But, while these pleasures you're pursuing Without impediment or let, No wonder if you quite forget What on the earth is doing. "There was a time when all mankind Did listen with a faith sincere To tuneful tongues in mystery versed; Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed The wonders of a wild career. "Go—(but the world's a sleepy world, And 'tis, I fear, an age too late) Take with you some ambitious Youth! For, restless Wanderer! I, in truth, Am all unfit to be your mate. "Long have I loved what I behold, The night that calms, the day that cheers; The common growth of mother-earth Suffices me—her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears. "The dragon's wing, the magic ring, I shall not covet for my dower, If I along that lowly way With sympathetic heart may stray, And with a soul of power. "These given, what more need I desire To stir, to soothe, or elevate? What nobler marvels than the mind May in life's daily prospect find, May find or there create? "A potent wand doth Sorrow wield; What spell so strong as guilty Fear! Repentance is a tender Sprite; If aught on earth have heavenly might, 'Tis lodged within her silent tear. "But grant my wishes,—let us now Descend from this ethereal height; Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff, More daring far than Hippogriff, And be thy own delight! "To the stone-table in my garden, Loved haunt of many a summer hour, The Squire is come: his daughter Bess Beside him in the cool recess Sits blooming like a flower. "With these are many more convened; They know not I have been so far;— I see them there, in number nine, Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine! I see them—there they are! "There sits the Vicar and his Dame; And there my good friend, Stephen Otter; And, ere the light of evening fail, To them I must relate the Tale Of Peter Bell the Potter." Off flew the Boat—away she flees, Spurning her freight with indignation! "And I, as well as I was able, On two poor legs, toward my stone-table Limped on with sore vexation. "O, here he is!" cried little Bess— She saw me at the garden-door; "We've waited anxiously and long," They cried, and all around me throng, Full nine of them or more! "Reproach me not—your fears be still— Be thankful we again have met;— Resume, my Friends! within the shade Your seats, and quickly shall be paid The well-remembered debt." I spake with faltering voice, like one Not wholly rescued from the pale Of a wild dream, or worse illusion; But, straight, to cover my confusion, Began the promised Tale. |
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| All by the moonlight river side Groaned the poor Beast—alas! in vain; The staff was raised to loftier height, And the blows fell with heavier weight As Peter struck—and struck again. "Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the rules Of common sense you're surely sinning; This leap is for us all too bold; Who Peter was, let that be told, And start from the beginning." —"A Potter, Sir, he was by trade," Said I, becoming quite collected; "And wheresoever he appeared, Full twenty times was Peter feared For once that Peter was respected. "He two-and-thirty years or more, Had been a wild and woodland rover; Had heard the Atlantic surges roar On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore, And trod the cliffs of Dover. "And he had seen Caernarvon's towers, And well he knew the spire of Sarum; And he had been where Lincoln bell Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell— A far-renowned alarum. "At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, And merry Carlisle had he been; And all along the Lowlands fair, All through the bonny shire of Ayr; And far as Aberdeen. "And he had been at Inverness; And Peter, by the mountain-rills, Had danced his round with Highland lasses; And he had lain beside his asses On lofty Cheviot Hills: "And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales, Among the rocks and winding scars; Where deep and low the hamlets lie Beneath their little patch of sky And little lot of stars: "And all along the indented coast, Bespattered with the salt-sea foam; Where'er a knot of houses lay On headland, or in hollow bay;— Sure never man like him did roam! "As well might Peter, in the Fleet, Have been fast bound, a begging debtor;— He travelled here, he travelled there;— But not the value of a hair Was heart or head the better. "He roved among the vales and streams, In the green wood and hollow dell; They were his dwellings night and day,— But nature ne'er could find the way Into the heart of Peter Bell. "In vain, through every changeful year, Did Nature lead him as before; A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more. "Small change it made in Peter's heart To see his gentle panniered train With more than vernal pleasure feeding, Where'er the tender grass was leading Its earliest green along the lane. "In vain, through water, earth, and air, The soul of happy sound was spread, When Peter on some April morn, Beneath the broom or budding thorn, Made the warm earth his lazy bed. "At noon, when, by the forest's edge He lay beneath the branches high, The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky! "On a fair prospect some have looked And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away. "Within the breast of Peter Bell These silent raptures found no place; He was a Carl as wild and rude As ever hue-and-cry pursued, As ever ran a felon's race. "Of all that lead a lawless life, Of all that love their lawless lives, In city or in village small, He was the wildest far of all;— He had a dozen wedded wives. "Nay, start not!—wedded wives—and twelve! But how one wife could e'er come near him, In simple truth I cannot tell; For, be it said of Peter Bell, To see him was to fear him. "Though Nature could not touch his heart By lovely forms, and silent weather, And tender sounds, yet you might see At once, that Peter Bell and she Had often been together. "A savage wildness round him hung As of a dweller out of doors; In his whole figure and his mien A savage character was seen Of mountains and of dreary moors. "To all the unshaped half-human thoughts Which solitary Nature feeds 'Mid summer storms or winter's ice, Had Peter joined whatever vice The cruel city breeds. "His face was keen as is the wind That cuts along the hawthorn-fence; Of courage you saw little there, But, in its stead, a medley air Of cunning and of impudence. "He had a dark and sidelong walk, And long and slouching was his gait; Beneath his looks so bare and bold, You might perceive, his spirit cold Was playing with some inward bait. "His forehead wrinkled was and furred; A work, one half of which was done By thinking of his 'whens,' and 'hows'; And half, by knitting of his brows Beneath the glaring sun. "There was a hardness in his cheek, There was a hardness in his eye, As if the man had fixed his face, In many a solitary place, Against the wind and open sky!" ———— One night, (and now my little Bess! We've reached at last the promised Tale;) One beautiful November night, When the full moon was shining bright Upon the rapid river Swale, Along the river's winding banks Peter was travelling all alone; Whether to buy or sell, or led By pleasure running in his head, To me was never known. He trudged along through copse and brake, He trudged along o'er hill and dale; Nor for the moon cared he a tittle, And for the stars he cared as little, And for the murmuring river Swale. But, chancing to espy a path That promised to cut short the way; As many a wiser man hath done, He left a trusty guide for one That might his steps betray. To a thick wood he soon is brought Where cheerily his course he weaves, And whistling loud may yet be heard, Though often buried, like a bird Darkling, among the boughs and leaves. But quickly Peter's mood is changed, And on he drives with cheeks that burn In downright fury and in wrath;— There's little sign the treacherous path Will to the road return! The path grows dim, and dimmer still; Now up, now down, the Rover wends, With all the sail that he can carry, Till brought to a deserted quarry— And there the pathway ends. He paused—for shadows of strange shape, Massy and black, before him lay; But through the dark, and through the cold, And through the yawning fissures old, Did Peter boldly press his way Right through the quarry;—and behold A scene of soft and lovely hue! Where blue and grey, and tender green, Together make as sweet a scene As ever human eye did view. Beneath the clear blue sky he saw A little field of meadow ground; But field or meadow name it not; Call it of earth a small green plot, With rocks encompassed round. The Swale flowed under the grey rocks, But he flowed quiet and unseen;— You need a strong and stormy gale To bring the noises of the Swale To that green spot, so calm and green! And is there no one dwelling here, No hermit with his beads and glass? And does no little cottage look Upon this soft and fertile nook? Does no one live near this green grass? Across the deep and quiet spot Is Peter driving through the grass— And now has reached the skirting trees; When, turning round his head, he sees A solitary Ass. "A prize!" cries Peter—but he first Must spy about him far and near: There's not a single house in sight, No woodman's hut, no cottage light— Peter, you need not fear! There's nothing to be seen but woods, And rocks that spread a hoary gleam, And this one Beast, that from the bed Of the green meadow hangs his head Over the silent stream. His head is with a halter bound; The halter seizing, Peter leapt Upon the Creature's back, and plied With ready heels his shaggy side; But still the Ass his station kept. Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, A jerk that from a dungeon-floor Would have pulled up an iron ring; But still the heavy-headed Thing Stood just as he had stood before! Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, "There is some plot against me laid"; Once more the little meadow-ground And all the hoary cliffs around He cautiously surveyed. All, all is silent—rocks and woods, All still and silent—far and near! Only the Ass, with motion dull, Upon the pivot of his skull Turns round his long left ear. Thought Peter, What can mean all this? Some ugly witchcraft must be here! —Once more the Ass, with motion dull, Upon the pivot of his skull Turned round his long left ear. Suspicion ripened into dread; Yet with deliberate action slow, His staff high-raising, in the pride Of skill, upon the sounding hide, He dealt a sturdy blow. The poor Ass staggered with the shock; And then, as if to take his ease, In quiet uncomplaining mood, Upon the spot where he had stood, Dropped gently down upon his knees; As gently on his side he fell; And by the river's brink did lie; And, while he lay like one that mourned, The patient Beast on Peter turned His shining hazel eye. 'Twas but one mild, reproachful look, A look more tender than severe; And straight in sorrow, not in dread, He turned the eye-ball in his head Towards the smooth river deep and clear. Upon the Beast the sapling rings; His lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred; He gave a groan, and then another, Of that which went before the brother, And then he gave a third. All by the moonlight river side He gave three miserable groans; And not till now hath Peter seen How gaunt the Creature is,—how lean And sharp his staring bones! With legs stretched out and stiff he lay:— No word of kind commiseration Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue; With hard contempt his heart was wrung, With hatred and vexation. The meagre beast lay still as death; And Peter's lips with fury quiver; Quoth he, "You little mulish dog, I'll fling your carcass like a log Head-foremost down the river!" An impious oath confirmed the threat— Whereat from the earth on which he lay To all the echoes, south and north, And east and west, the Ass sent forth A long and clamorous bray! This outcry, on the heart of Peter, Seems like a note of joy to strike,— Joy at the heart of Peter knocks; But in the echo of the rocks Was something Peter did not like. Whether to cheer his coward breast, Or that he could not break the chain, In this serene and solemn hour, Twined round him by demoniac power, To the blind work he turned again. Among the rocks and winding crags; Among the mountains far away; Once more the Ass did lengthen out More ruefully a deep-drawn shout, The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray! What is there now in Peter's heart! Or whence the might of this strange sound? The moon uneasy looked and dimmer, The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer, And the rocks staggered all around— From Peter's hand the sapling dropped! Threat has he none to execute; "If any one should come and see That I am here, they'll think," quoth he, "I'm helping this poor dying brute." He scans the Ass from limb to limb, And ventures now to uplift his eyes; More steady looks the moon, and clear, More like themselves the rocks appear And touch more quiet skies. His scorn returns—his hate revives; He stoops the Ass's neck to seize With malice—that again takes flight; For in the pool a startling sight Meets him, among the inverted trees. Is it the moon's distorted face? The ghost-like image of a cloud? Is it a gallows there portrayed? Is Peter of himself afraid? Is it a coffin,—or a shroud? A grisly idol hewn in stone? Or imp from witch's lap let fall? Perhaps a ring of shining fairies? Such as pursue their feared vagaries In sylvan bower, or haunted hall? Is it a fiend that to a stake Of fire his desperate self is tethering? Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell In solitary ward or cell, Ten thousand miles from all his brethren? Never did pulse so quickly throb, And never heart so loudly panted; He looks, he cannot choose but look; Like some one reading in a book— A book that is enchanted. Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell! He will be turned to iron soon, Meet Statue for the court of Fear! His hat is up—and every hair Bristles, and whitens in the moon! He looks, he ponders, looks again; He sees a motion—hears a groan; His eyes will burst—his heart will break— He gives a loud and frightful shriek, And back he falls, as if his life were flown! |
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| We left our Hero in a trance, Beneath the alders, near the river; The Ass is by the river-side, And, where the feeble breezes glide, Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver. A happy respite! but at length He feels the glimmering of the moon; Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing— To sink, perhaps, where he is lying, Into a second swoon! He lifts his head, he sees his staff; He touches—'tis to him a treasure! Faint recollection seems to tell That he is yet where mortals dwell— A thought received with languid pleasure! His head upon his elbow propped, Becoming less and less perplexed, Sky-ward he looks—to rock and wood— And then—upon the glassy flood His wandering eye is fixed. Thought he, that is the face of one In his last sleep securely bound! So toward the stream his head he bent, And downward thrust his staff, intent The river's depth to sound. Now—like a tempest-shattered bark, That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, And in a moment to the verge Is lifted of a foaming surge— Full suddenly the Ass doth rise! His staring bones all shake with joy, And close by Peter's side he stands: While Peter o'er the river bends, The little Ass his neck extends, And fondly licks his hands. Such life is in the Ass's eyes, Such life is in his limbs and ears; That Peter Bell, if he had been The veriest coward ever seen, Must now have thrown aside his fears. The Ass looks on—and to his work Is Peter quietly resigned; He touches here—he touches there— And now among the dead man's hair His sapling Peter has entwined. He pulls—and looks—and pulls again; And he whom the poor Ass had lost, The man who had been four days dead, Head-foremost from the river's bed Uprises like a ghost! And Peter draws him to dry land; And through the brain of Peter pass Some poignant twitches, fast and faster; "No doubt," quoth he, "he is the Master Of this poor miserable Ass!" The meagre shadow that looks on— What would he now? what is he doing? His sudden fit of joy is flown,— He on his knees hath laid him down, As if he were his grief renewing; But no—that Peter on his back Must mount, he shows well as he can: Thought Peter then, come weal or woe I'll do what he would have me do, In pity to this poor drowned man. With that resolve he boldly mounts Upon the pleased and thankful Ass; And then, without a moment's stay, That earnest Creature turned away, Leaving the body on the grass. Intent upon his faithful watch, The Beast four days and nights had past; A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen, And there the Ass four days had been, Nor ever once did break his fast: Yet firm his step, and stout his heart; The mead is crossed—the quarry's mouth Is reached; but there the trusty guide Into a thicket turns aside, And deftly ambles towards the south. When hark a burst of doleful sound! And Peter honestly might say, The like came never to his ears, Though he has been, full thirty years, A rover—night and day! 'Tis not a plover of the moors, 'Tis not a bittern of the fen; Nor can it be a barking fox, Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks, Nor wild-cat in a woody glen! The Ass is startled—and stops short Right in the middle of the thicket; And Peter, wont to whistle loud Whether alone or in a crowd, Is silent as a silent cricket. What ails you now, my little Bess? Well may you tremble and look grave! This cry—that rings along the wood, This cry—that floats adown the flood, Comes from the entrance of a cave: I see a blooming Wood-boy there, And if I had the power to say How sorrowful the wanderer is, Your heart would be as sad as his Till you had kissed his tears away! Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand, All bright with berries ripe and red, Into the cavern's mouth he peeps; Thence back into the moonlight creeps; Whom seeks he—whom?—the silent dead: His father!—Him doth he require— Him hath he sought with fruitless pains, Among the rocks, behind the trees; Now creeping on his hands and knees, Now running o'er the open plains. And hither is he come at last, When he through such a day has gone, By this dark cave to be distrest Like a poor bird—her plundered nest Hovering around with dolorous moan! Of that intense and piercing cry The listening Ass conjectures well; Wild as it is, he there can read Some intermingled notes that plead With touches irresistible. But Peter—when he saw the Ass Not only stop but turn, and change The cherished tenor of his pace That lamentable cry to chase— It wrought in him conviction strange; A faith that, for the dead man's sake And this poor slave who loved him well, Vengeance upon his head will fall, Some visitation worse than all Which ever till this night befel. Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home, Is striving stoutly as he may; But, while he climbs the woody hill, The cry grows weak—and weaker still; And now at last it dies away. So with his freight the Creature turns Into a gloomy grove of beech, Along the shade with footsteps true Descending slowly, till the two The open moonlight reach. And there, along the narrow dell, A fair smooth pathway you discern, A length of green and open road— As if it from a fountain flowed— Winding away between the fern. The rocks that tower on either side Build up a wild fantastic scene; Temples like those among the Hindoos, And mosques, and spires, and abbey-windows, And castles all with ivy green! And, while the Ass pursues his way, Along this solitary dell, As pensively his steps advance, The mosques and spires change countenance, And look at Peter Bell! That unintelligible cry Hath left him high in preparation,— Convinced that he, or soon or late, This very night will meet his fate— And so he sits in expectation! The strenuous Animal hath clomb With the green path; and now he wends Where, shining like the smoothest sea, In undisturbed immensity A level plain extends. But whence this faintly-rustling sound By which the journeying pair are chased? —A withered leaf is close behind, Light plaything for the sportive wind Upon that solitary waste. When Peter spied the moving thing, It only doubled his distress; "Where there is not a bush or tree, The very leaves they follow me— So huge hath been my wickedness!" To a close lane they now are come, Where, as before, the enduring Ass Moves on without a moment's stop, Nor once turns round his head to crop A bramble-leaf or blade of grass. Between the hedges as they go, The white dust sleeps upon the lane; And Peter, ever and anon Back-looking, sees, upon a stone, Or in the dust, a crimson stain. A stain—as of a drop of blood By moonlight made more faint and wan; Ha! why these sinkings of despair? He knows not how the blood comes there— And Peter is a wicked man. At length he spies a bleeding wound, Where he had struck the Ass's head; He sees the blood, knows what it is,— A glimpse of sudden joy was his, But then it quickly fled; Of him whom sudden death had seized He thought,—of thee, O faithful Ass! And once again those ghastly pains, Shoot to and fro through heart and reins, And through his brain like lightning pass. |
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| I've heard of one, a gentle Soul, Though given to sadness and to gloom, And for the fact will vouch,—one night It chanced that by a taper's light This man was reading in his room; Bending, as you or I might bend At night o'er any pious book, When sudden blackness overspread The snow-white page on which he read, And made the good man round him look. The chamber walls were dark all round,— And to his book he turned again; —The light had left the lonely taper, And formed itself upon the paper Into large letters—bright and plain! The godly book was in his hand— And, on the page, more black than coal, Appeared, set forth in strange array, A word—which to his dying day Perplexed the good man's gentle soul. The ghostly word, thus plainly seen, Did never from his lips depart; But he hath said, poor gentle wight! It brought full many a sin to light Out of the bottom of his heart. Dread Spirits! to confound the meek Why wander from your course so far, Disordering colour, form, and stature! —Let good men feel the soul of nature, And see things as they are. Yet, potent Spirits! well I know, How ye, that play with soul and sense, Are not unused to trouble friends Of goodness, for most gracious ends— And this I speak in reverence! But might I give advice to you, Whom in my fear I love so well; From men of pensive virtue go, Dread Beings! and your empire show On hearts like that of Peter Bell. Your presence often have I felt In darkness and the stormy night; And, with like force, if need there be, Ye can put forth your agency When earth is calm, and heaven is bright. Then, coming from the wayward world, That powerful world in which ye dwell, Come, Spirits of the Mind! and try, To-night, beneath the moonlight sky, What may be done with Peter Bell! —O, would that some more skilful voice My further labour might prevent! Kind Listeners, that around me sit, I feel that I am all unfit For such high argument. I've played, I've danced, with my narration; I loitered long ere I began: Ye waited then on my good pleasure; Pour out indulgence still, in measure As liberal as ye can! Our Travellers, ye remember well, Are thridding a sequestered lane; And Peter many tricks is trying, And many anodynes applying, To ease his conscience of its pain. By this his heart is lighter far; And, finding that he can account So snugly for that crimson stain, His evil spirit up again Does like an empty bucket mount. And Peter is a deep logician Who hath no lack of wit mercurial; "Blood drops—leaves rustle—yet," quoth he, "This poor man never, but for me, Could have had Christian burial. "And, say the best you can, 'tis plain, That here has been some wicked dealing; No doubt the devil in me wrought; I'm not the man who could have thought An Ass like this was worth the stealing!" So from his pocket Peter takes His shining horn tobacco-box; And, in a light and careless way, As men who with their purpose play, Upon the lid he knocks. Let them whose voice can stop the clouds, Whose cunning eye can see the wind, Tell to a curious world the cause Why, making here a sudden pause, The Ass turned round his head, and grinned. Appalling process! I have marked The like on heath, in lonely wood; And, verily, have seldom met A spectacle more hideous—yet It suited Peter's present mood. And, grinning in his turn, his teeth He in jocose defiance showed— When, to upset his spiteful mirth, A murmur, pent within the earth, In the dead earth beneath the road, Rolled audibly! it swept along, A muffled noise—a rumbling sound!— 'Twas by a troop of miners made, Plying with gunpowder their trade, Some twenty fathoms underground. Small cause of dire effect! for, surely, If ever mortal, King or Cotter, Believed that earth was charged to quake And yawn for his unworthy sake, 'Twas Peter Bell the Potter. But, as an oak in breathless air Will stand though to the centre hewn; Or as the weakest things, if frost Have stiffened them, maintain their post; So he, beneath the gazing moon!— The Beast bestriding thus, he reached A spot where, in a sheltering cove, A little chapel stands alone, With greenest ivy overgrown, And tufted with an ivy grove; Dying insensibly away From human thoughts and purposes, It seemed—wall, window, roof and tower— To bow to some transforming power, And blend with the surrounding trees. As ruinous a place it was, Thought Peter, in the shire of Fife That served my turn, when following still From land to land a reckless will I married my sixth wife! The unheeding Ass moves slowly on, And now is passing by an inn Brim-full of a carousing crew, That make, with curses not a few, An uproar and a drunken din. I cannot well express the thoughts Which Peter in those noises found;— A stifling power compressed his frame, While-as a swimming darkness came Over that dull and dreary sound. For well did Peter know the sound; The language of those drunken joys To him, a jovial soul, I ween, But a few hours ago, had been A gladsome and a welcome noise. Now, turned adrift into the past, He finds no solace in his course; Like planet-stricken men of yore, He trembles, smitten to the core By strong compunction and remorse. But, more than all, his heart is stung To think of one, almost a child; A sweet and playful Highland girl, As light and beauteous as a squirrel, As beauteous and as wild! Her dwelling was a lonely house, A cottage in a heathy dell; And she put on her gown of green, And left her mother at sixteen, And followed Peter Bell. But many good and pious thoughts Had she; and, in the kirk to pray, Two long Scotch miles, through rain or snow, To kirk she had been used to go, Twice every Sabbath-day. And, when she followed Peter Bell, It was to lead an honest life; For he, with tongue not used to falter, Had pledged his troth before the altar To love her as his wedded wife. A mother's hope is hers;—but soon She drooped and pined like one forlorn; From Scripture she a name did borrow; Benoni, or the child of sorrow, She called her babe unborn. For she had learned how Peter lived, And took it in most grievous part; She to the very bone was worn, And, ere that little child was born, Died of a broken heart. And now the Spirits of the Mind Are busy with poor Peter Bell; Upon the rights of visual sense Usurping, with a prevalence More terrible than magic spell. Close by a brake of flowering furze (Above it shivering aspens play) He sees an unsubstantial creature, His very self in form and feature, Not four yards from the broad highway: And stretched beneath the furze he sees The Highland girl—it is no other; And hears her crying as she cried, The very moment that she died, "My mother! oh my mother!" The sweat pours down from Peter's face, So grievous is his heart's contrition; With agony his eye-balls ache While he beholds by the furze-brake This miserable vision! Calm is the well-deserving brute, His peace hath no offence betrayed; But now, while down that slope he wends, A voice to Peter's ear ascends, Resounding from the woody glade: The voice, though clamorous as a horn Re-echoed by a naked rock, Comes from that tabernacle—List! Within, a fervent Methodist Is preaching to no heedless flock! "Repent! repent!" he cries aloud, "While yet ye may find mercy;—strive To love the Lord with all your might; Turn to him, seek him day and night, And save your souls alive! "Repent! repent! though ye have gone, Through paths of wickedness and woe, After the Babylonian harlot; And, though your sins be red as scarlet, They shall be white as snow!" Even as he passed the door, these words Did plainly come to Peter's ears; And they such joyful tidings were, The joy was more than he could bear!— He melted into tears. Sweet tears of hope and tenderness! And fast they fell, a plenteous shower! His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt; Through all his iron frame was felt A gentle, a relaxing, power! Each fibre of his frame was weak; Weak all the animal within; But, in its helplessness, grew mild And gentle as an infant child, An infant that has known no sin. 'Tis said, meek Beast! that, through Heaven's grace, He not unmoved did notice now The cross upon thy shoulder scored, For lasting impress, by the Lord To whom all human-kind shall bow; Memorial of his touch—that day When Jesus humbly deigned to ride, Entering the proud Jerusalem, By an immeasurable stream Of shouting people deified! Meanwhile the persevering Ass, Turned towards a gate that hung in view Across a shady lane; his chest Against the yielding gate he pressed And quietly passed through. And up the stony lane he goes; No ghost more softly ever trod; Among the stones and pebbles, he Sets down his hoofs inaudibly, As if with felt his hoofs were shod. Along the lane the trusty Ass Went twice two hundred yards or more, And no one could have guessed his aim,— Till to a lonely house he came, And stopped beside the door. Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home! He listens—not a sound is heard Save from the trickling household rill; But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill, Forthwith a little Girl appeared. She to the Meeting-house was bound In hopes some tidings there to gather: No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam; She saw—and uttered with a scream, "My father! here's my father!" The very word was plainly heard, Heard plainly by the wretched Mother— Her joy was like a deep affright: And forth she rushed into the light, And saw it was another! And, instantly, upon the earth, Beneath the full moon shining bright, Close to the Ass's feet she fell; At the same moment Peter Bell Dismounts in most unhappy plight. As he beheld the Woman lie Breathless and motionless, the mind Of Peter sadly was confused; But, though to such demands unused, And helpless almost as the blind, He raised her up; and, while he held Her body propped against his knee, The Woman waked—and when she spied The poor Ass standing by her side, She moaned most bitterly. "Oh! God be praised—my heart's at ease— For he is dead—I know it well!" —At this she wept a bitter flood; And, in the best way that he could, His tale did Peter tell. He trembles—he is pale as death; His voice is weak with perturbation; He turns aside his head, he pauses; Poor Peter from a thousand causes, Is crippled sore in his narration. At length she learned how he espied The Ass in that small meadow-ground; And that her Husband now lay dead, Beside that luckless river's bed In which he had been drowned. A piercing look the Widow cast Upon the Beast that near her stands; She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same; She calls the poor Ass by his name, And wrings, and wrings her hands. "O wretched loss—untimely stroke! If he had died upon his bed! He knew not one forewarning pain; He never will come home again— Is dead, for ever dead!" Beside the Woman Peter stands; His heart is opening more and more; A holy sense pervades his mind; He feels what he for human-kind Had never felt before. At length, by Peter's arm sustained, The Woman rises from the ground— "Oh, mercy! something must be done, My little Rachel, you must run,— Some willing neighbour must be found. "Make haste—my little Rachel—do, The first you meet with—bid him come, Ask him to lend his horse to-night, And this good Man, whom Heaven requite, Will help to bring the body home." Away goes Rachel weeping loud;— An Infant, waked by her distress, Makes in the house a piteous cry; And Peter hears the Mother sigh, "Seven are they, and all fatherless!" And now is Peter taught to feel That man's heart is a holy thing; And Nature, through a world of death, Breathes into him a second breath, More searching than the breath of spring. Upon a stone the Woman sits In agony of silent grief— From his own thoughts did Peter start; He longs to press her to his heart, From love that cannot find relief. But roused, as if through every limb Had past a sudden shock of dread, The Mother o'er the threshold flies, And up the cottage stairs she hies, And on the pillow lays her burning head. And Peter turns his steps aside Into a shade of darksome trees, Where he sits down, he knows not how, With his hands pressed against his brow, His elbows on his tremulous knees. There, self-involved, does Peter sit Until no sign of life he makes, As if his mind were sinking deep Through years that have been long asleep! The trance is passed away—he wakes; He lifts his head—and sees the Ass Yet standing in the clear moonshine; "When shall I be as good as thou? Oh! would, poor beast, that I had now A heart but half as good as thine!" But He—who deviously hath sought His Father through the lonesome woods, Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear Of night his grief and sorrowful fear— He comes, escaped from fields and floods;— With weary pace is drawing nigh; He sees the Ass—and nothing living Had ever such a fit of joy As hath this little orphan Boy, For he has no misgiving! Forth to the gentle Ass he springs, And up about his neck he climbs; In loving words he talks to him, He kisses, kisses face and limb,— He kisses him a thousand times! This Peter sees, while in the shade He stood beside the cottage-door; And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild, Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child, "Oh! God, I can endure no more!" —Here ends my Tale: for in a trice Arrived a neighbour with his horse; Peter went forth with him straightway; And, with due care, ere break of day, Together they brought back the Corse. And many years did this poor Ass, Whom once it was my luck to see Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, Help by his labour to maintain The Widow and her family. And Peter Bell, who, till that night, Had been the wildest of his clan, Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly, And, after ten months' melancholy, Became a good and honest man. Contents |
82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 |
H I J K |
740 745 750 755 760 765 770 775 780 785 790 795 800 805 810 815 820 825 830 835 840 845 850 855 860 865 870 875 880 885 890 895 900 905 910 915 920 925 930 935 940 945 950 955 960 965 970 975 980 985 990 995 1000 1005 1010 1015 1020 1025 1030 1035 1040 1045 1050 1055 1060 1065 1070 1075 1080 1085 1090 1095 1100 1105 1110 1115 1120 1125 1130 1135 |
| 1827 | |
And something |
1819 |
| 1849 | |
Whose shape is like |
1819 |
For shape just like |
1845 |
| 1845 | |
The noise of danger fills |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
Meanwhile I from the helm admire |
1819 |
... I soberly admire |
C. |
| 1827 | |
Or deep into the heavens |
1819 |
Or into massy clouds |
1820 |
| 1820 | |
... between ... |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
... are ill-built, |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
... between ... |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
That darling speck ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
And there it is, ... |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
... heartless ... |
1819 |
| In the editions of 1819 and 1820 only. | |
Out—out—and, like a brooding hen, |
| 1827 | |
... the land ... |
1819 |
| 1845 | |
My radiant Pinnace, you forget |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
For I myself, in very truth, |
1819 |
| 1845 | |
Off flew my sparkling Boat in scorn, |
1819 |
Spurning her freight with indignation! |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
... to my stone-table |
1819 |
... tow'rd my stone-table |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
... promptly ... |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
Breath fail'd me as I spake—but soon |
1819 |
| 1820 | |
All by the moonlight river side |
1819 |
| In the two editions of 1819 only. | |
"Good Sir!"—the Vicar's voice exclaim'd, |
| 1836 | ||
The Squire said, "Sure as paradise |
1819 |
|
Like winds that lash the waves, or smite |
1820 |
|
The woods, autumnal foliage thinning— |
1827 |
| 1845 | |
... its ponderous knell, |
1819 |
... his ponderous knell, |
1836 |
... that ponderous knell— |
1840 |
| 1820 | |
With Peter Bell, I need not tell |
1819 |
| 1819 | |
... placid ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
... cheerfully ... |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
Till he is brought to an old quarry, |
1819 |
| In the two editions of 1819 only. | |
"What! would'st thou daunt me grisly den? |
| 1820 | |
And so, where on the huge rough stones |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
... made ... |
1819 |
| In the two editions of 1819 only. | |
Now you'll suppose that Peter Bell |
| 1827 | |
Across that ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
And now he is among the trees; |
1819 |
"No doubt I'm founder'd in these woods— |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
But first doth Peter deem it fit |
1819 |
"A prize," cried Peter, stepping back |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
... Ass's back, ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
With ready heel the creature's side; |
1819 |
With ready heel his shaggy side; |
1827 |
| In the editions of 1819 to 1832 only. | |
"What's this!" cried Peter, brandishing |
1819 |
A new-peeled sapling;—though, I deem, |
1920 |
... —though I deem, |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
"I'll cure you of these desperate tricks"— |
C. and 1819. |
| 1836 | |
What followed?—yielding to the shock |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
And then upon ... |
1819 |
| 1840 | |
... as ... |
1819 |
| 1819 | |
The Beast on his tormentor turned |
1827 |
His shining ... |
1832 |
| 1836 | |
Towards the river ... |
1819 |
| 1832 | |
Heav'd his lank sides, ... |
1819 |
| 1836. In the two editions of 1819 this stanza formed two stanzas, thus: | |
All by the moonlight river side |
1819 |
In the editions of 1820-1832, only the second of these stanzas is retained, with the following change of text in 1827: |
|
And, while he halts, was clearly shown |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
But, while upon the ground he lay, |
1819 |
That instant, while outstretched he lay, |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
A loud and piteous bray! |
1819 |
| 1820 | |
Joy on ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... an endless shout, |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
And Peter now uplifts his eyes; |
1819 |
And quiet are the skies. |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Whereat, in resolute mood, once more |
1819 |
| 1819 | |
... the gallows ... |
1832 |
| 1836 | |
Or a gay ring of shining fairies, |
1819 |
| In the two editions of 1819 only. | |
Is it a party in a parlour? |
| 1827 | |
A throbbing pulse the Gazer hath— |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
Like one intent upon a book— |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
And drops, a senseless weight, |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
A happy respite!—but he wakes;— |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
... placid ... |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
So, faltering not in this intent, |
1819 |
So toward the stream his head he bent, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
The meagre Shadow all this while— |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
That Peter on his back should mount |
1819 |
But no—his purpose and his wish |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
This utter'd, Peter mounts forthwith |
1819 |
This hoping, |
1820 |
Encouraged by this hope, he mounts |
1827 |
This hoping, Peter boldly mounts |
1832 |
| 1827 | |
The |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
And takes his way ... |
1819 |
| 1840 | |
Holding ... |
1819 |
| 1840 and C. | |
What seeks the boy?—the silent dead! |
1819 |
Seeking for whom?— ... |
1836 |
| 1836 | |
Whom he hath sought ... |
1819 |
| 1820 | |
... doth rightly spell; |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... noise ... |
1819 |
| 1820 | |
... to gain his end |
1819 |
| 1845 | |
... footstep ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... along a ... |
1819 |
| In the editions of 1819 and 1820 the following stanza occurs: | |
The verdant pathway, in and out, |
| 1827 | |
The ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
How blank!—but whence this rustling sound |
1819 |
But whence that faintly-rustling sound |
1820 |
But whence this faintly rustling sound |
C. |
| 1836 | |
When Peter spies the withered leaf, |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
Ha! why this comfortless despair? |
1819 |
| 1819 | |
... the Creature's head; |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
... those darting pains, |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
Reading, as you or I might read |
1819 |
| 1826 | |
... the good man's taper, |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
The ghostly word, which thus was fram'd, |
1819 |
... full plainly seen, |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
... to torment the good |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
I know you, potent Spirits! well, |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... I have often ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
And well I know ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... and danc'd ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... clearly ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... hath ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... to confound ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
But now the pair have reach'd a spot |
1819 |
Meanwhile the pair |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
The building seems, wall, roof, and tower, |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
Deep sighing as he pass'd along, |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
Making, ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
As if confusing darkness came |
1819 |
And a confusing |
1832 |
While clouds of swimming darkness came |
C. |
| Italics were first used in the edition of 1820. |
| 1836 | |
A lonely house her dwelling was, |
1819 |
| 1819 | |
... her name ... |
1820 |
| 1820 | |
Distraction reigns in soul and sense, |
1820 |
| 1820 | |
... ears ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
Though clamorous as a hunter's horn |
1819 |
The voice, though clamorous as a horn |
1832 |
| 1819 | |
... pious ... |
C. |
| 1836 | |
'Tis said, that through prevailing grace |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... shoulders scored |
1819 |
Faithful memorial of the Lord |
C. |
| 1836 | |
In memory of that solemn day |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
Towards a gate in open view |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
Had gone two hundred yards, not more; |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
In hope ... |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
Close at ... |
1819 |
| 1832 | |
What could he do?—The Woman lay |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... the sufferer ... |
1819 |
| 1819 | |
... stair ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
And to the pillow gives ... |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
And resting on ... |
1819 |
| 1827 | |
He turns ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
... his inward grief and fear— |
1819 |
... his sorrow and his fear— |
C. |
| 1827 | |
... had ... |
1819 |
| 1836 | |
Towards ... |
1819 |
| 1832 | |
... repressed ... |
1819 |
"The moon crescent. Peter Bell begun."Ed.
'the sunny seatEd.
Round the stone table under the dark pine.'
'At last, the dead man, 'mid that beauteous sceneEd.
Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright
Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre shape
Of terror.'
"I am quite delighted to hear of your picture for Peter Bell .... But remember that no poem of mine will ever be popular, and I am afraid that the sale of Peter would not carry the expense of engraving .... The people would love the poem of Peter Bell, but the public (a very different thing) will never love it."Some days before Wordsworth's Peter Bell was issued in 1819, another 'Peter Bell' was published by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey. It was a parody written by J. Hamilton Reynolds, and issued as 'Peter Bell, a Lyrical Ballad', with the sentence on its title page, "I do affirm that I am the real Simon Pure." The preface, which follows, is too paltry to quote; and the stanzas which make up the poem contain allusions to the more trivial of the early Lyrical Ballads (Betty Foy, Harry Gill, etc.). Wordsworth's Peter Bell was published about a week later; and Shelley afterwards published his Peter Bell the Third. Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth, in May 1819:
"Dear Wordsworth—I received a copy of 'Peter Bell' a week ago, and I hope the author will not be offended if I say I do not much relish it. The humour, if it is meant for humour, is forced; and then the price!—sixpence would have been dear for it. Mind, I do not mean your 'Peter Bell', but a Peter Bell, which preceded it about a week, and is in every bookseller's shop window in London, the type and paper nothing differing from the true one, the preface signed W. W., and the supplementary preface quoting, as the author's words, an extract from the supplementary preface to the 'Lyrical Ballads.' Is there no law against these rascals? I would have this Lambert Simnel whipt at the cart's tail."(The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by A. Ainger, vol. ii. p. 20.)
"And his carcase was cast in the way, and the ass stood by it."1 Kings xiii. 24.—Ed.
"Mrs. Basil Montagu told me she had no doubt she had suggested this image to Wordsworth by relating to him an anecdote. A person, walking in a friend's garden, looking in at a window, saw a company of ladies at a table near the window, with countenances fixed. In an instant he was aware of their condition, and broke the window. He saved them from incipient suffocation."Wordsworth subsequently said that he had omitted the stanza only in deference to the "unco guid." Crabb Robinson remonstrated with him against its exclusion.—Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur.—Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:—feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,— Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft— In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart— How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all.—I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes, Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance— If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence—wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 |
C D E F G H B |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 |
| 1845 | |
... sweet ... |
1798 |
| 1827 | |
Which ... |
1798 |
| 1845 | |
... with their unripe fruits, |
1798 |
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves |
1802 |
| 1827 | |
... Though absent long, |
1798 |
| 1798 | |
... inmost mind |
MS. |
| 1820 | |
As may have had no trivial influence |
1798 |
| 1798 | |
... wood, |
1798 (some copies) |
| 1836 | |
... or ... |
1798 |
| 1800 | |
Not ... |
1798 |
'And the low copses—coming from the trees.'Ed.
'Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,Ed.
But to be young was very Heaven.'
'And half-create the wondrous world they see.'Night Thoughts, (Night vi. l. 427).—Ed.
Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang,Ed.
The thought of her was like a flash of light,
Or an unseen companionship.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander!—many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him.—And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause Of silence such as baffled his best skill: Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village-school; And, through that church-yard when my way has led On summer-evenings, I believe, that there A long half-hour together I have stood Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies! Contents Note |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 |
| 1815 | |
... when the stars had just begun |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... a wild scene |
1800 |
... concourse wild |
1805 |
| 1836 | |
... And, when it chanced |
1800 |
... and, when a lengthened pause |
The Prelude, 1850 |
| This and the following line were added in 1805. |
| 1815 | |
... ere he was ten years old. |
1805 |
| 1845 | |
Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, |
1800 |
Fair is the spot, most beautiful the Vale |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
And there along that bank when I have pass'd |
1800 |
... I believe, that oftentimes |
1805 |
And through that Church-yard when my way has led |
1827 |
| 1815 | |
A full half-hour together I have stood, |
1800 |
Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies. |
1805 |
"The blank lines gave me as much direct pleasure as was possible in the general bustle of pleasure with which I received and read your letter. I observed, I remember, that the 'fingers woven,' etc., only puzzled me; and though I liked the twelve or fourteen first lines very well, yet I liked the remainder much better. Well, now I have read them again, they are very beautiful, and leave an affecting impression. ThatThe MS. copy of this poem sent to Coleridge probably lacked the explanatory line,'uncertain heaven receivedI should have recognised anywhere; and had I met these lines, running wild in the deserts of Arabia, I should have instantly screamed out 'Wordsworth'!"
Into the bosom of the steady lake,'
'Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth,'as another MS., in the possession of the poet's grandson, lacks it; and the line was possibly added—as the late Mr. Dykes Campbell suggested—"in deference to S. T. C.'s expression of puzzlement."
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| O now that the genius of Bewick were mine, And the skill which he learned on the banks of the Tyne, Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose, For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose. What feats would I work with my magical hand! Book-learning and books should be banished the land: And, for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls, Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls. The traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair; Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care! For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his sheaves, Oh, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves? The One, yet unbreeched, is not three birthdays old, His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told; There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather Between them, and both go a-pilfering together. With chips is the carpenter strewing his floor? Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's door? Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide! And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side. Old Daniel begins; he stops short—and his eye, Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly: 'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown. He once had a heart which was moved by the wires Of manifold pleasures and many desires: And what if he cherished his purse? 'Twas no more Than treading a path trod by thousands before. 'Twas a path trod by thousands; but Daniel is one Who went something farther than others have gone, And now with old Daniel you see how it fares; You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs. The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the sun Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun: And yet, into whatever sin they may fall, This child but half knows it, and that not at all. They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread, And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led; And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles, Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles. Neither checked by the rich nor the needy they roam; For the grey-headed Sire has a daughter at home, Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done; And three, were it asked, would be rendered for one. Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have eyed, I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side: Long yet may'st thou live! for a teacher we see That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 |
A B |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 |
| 1800 | |
Oh! now that the boxwood and graver were mine, |
MS. 1798 |
| 1800 | |
Then Books, and Book-learning, I'd ring out your knell, |
MS. 1798. |
| 1820 | |
Little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth-days old, |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
... a-stealing ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... of peats ... |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
Dan once ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
'Twas a smooth pleasant pathway, a gentle descent, |
MS. 1798. |
| 1802 | |
... street ... |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
... is both leader and led; |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
For grey-headed Dan ... |
1800 |
The grey-headed Sire ... |
1820 |
"that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path, which is so fine in the 'Old Thief and the Boy by his side,' which always brings water into my eyes."(See Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 287.)—Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones Is not a Ruin spared or made by time, Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little Dome Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinished task. The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone Of that intended Pile, which would have been Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wondered at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, Bred in this vale, to which he appertained With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, And for the outrage which he had devised Entire forgiveness!—But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An inmate of these mountains,—if, disturbed By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze In snow-white splendour,—think again; and, taught By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose; There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone. Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 |
B |
5 10 15 20 25 30 |
| 1837 | |
Is not a ruin of the ancient time, |
1800 |
... antique ... |
MS. |
| 1802 | |
... which was to have been built |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
Of some old British warrior: so, to speak |
MS. |
| 1837 | |
... the Knight forthwith |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
Of the ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
Bred here, and to this valley appertained |
MS. 1798. |
| 1800 | |
... glory, ... |
1802 |
"objections to white, as a colour, in large spots or masses in landscape,"in his Guide through the district of the Lakes (section third).—Ed.
| end of Volume II: 1798 | → | 1799 |
| Main Contents |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought! And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion! not in vain, By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul; Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man: But with high objects, with enduring things, With life and nature: purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying by such discipline Both pain and fear,—until we recognise A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapours rolling down the valleys made A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights, When, by the margin of the trembling lake, Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went In solitude, such intercourse was mine: Mine was it in the fields both day and night, And by the waters, all the summer long. And in the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and, visible for many a mile, The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed, I heeded not the summons: happy time It was indeed for all of us; for me It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The village-clock tolled six—I wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home.—All shod with steel We hissed along the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn, The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle: with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars, Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star; Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me—even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1809 | |
That givest ... |
The Prelude, 1850. |
| 1815 | |
Nor ... |
1809 |
| 1809 | |
... valley ... |
The Prelude, 1850. |
| 1836 | |
... I homeward went |
1809 |
| 1845 | |
'Twas mine among the fields ... |
1809 |
| 1809 | |
... blazed through twilight gloom, |
The Prelude, 1850. |
| 1815 | |
... to me |
1809 |
| 1827 | |
... car'd not for its home— ... |
1809 |
... cares not ... |
1815 |
| 1840 | |
... loud bellowing ... |
1809 |
| 1836 | |
Meanwhile ... |
1809 |
| 1845 | |
... while the distant hills |
1809 |
| 1827 | |
To cut across the image ... |
1809 |
To cross the bright reflection ... |
1820 |
| 1820 | |
That gleam'd upon the ice; and oftentimes |
1809 (This line occupied the place of lines 51-52 of the final text.) |
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed |
The Prelude, 1850. |
| 1809 | |
... as a dreamless sleep. |
The Prelude, 1850. |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| —Brook and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow step. The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent, at every turn, Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light— Were all like workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, Characters of the great Apocalypse, The types and symbols of Eternity, Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. Contents |
1 2 |
5 10 15 20 |
| 1845 | |
... gloomy strait, |
The Prelude, 1850 |
| 1845 | |
... pace ... |
The Prelude, 1850 |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| —It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame— Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth, More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene!—A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet;—or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And—with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep— I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past; Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.— Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods. Contents Note |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 |
| 1836 | |
... which ... |
1800 |
| This line was added in the edition of 1827. |
| 1827 | |
When forth I sallied from our cottage-door, |
1800 |
| 1832 | |
And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung, |
1800 |
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung, |
1815 |
| 1815 | |
... I turn'd ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Towards the distant woods, ... |
1800 |
Toward ... |
1832 |
| 1815 | |
... of Beggar's weeds |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... Among the woods, |
1800 |
| 1845 | |
... milk-white clusters ... |
1800 |
| 1845 | |
... beneath ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away, |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... and the intruding sky.— |
1800 |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| A plague on your languages, German and Norse! Let me have the song of the kettle; And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse That gallops away with such fury and force On this dreary dull plate of black metal. See that Fly,—a disconsolate creature! perhaps A child of the field or the grove; And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat, And he creeps to the edge of my stove. Alas! how he fumbles about the domains Which this comfortless oven environ! He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, Now back to the tiles, then in search of the wall, And now on the brink of the iron. Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed: The best of his skill he has tried; His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth To the east and the west, to the south and the north But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh! His eyesight and hearing are lost; Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze Are glued to his sides by the frost. No brother, no mate has he near him—while I Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love; As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom, As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, And woodbines were hanging above. Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing! Thy life I would gladly sustain Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds. And back to the forests again! Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 |
| 1820 | |
A fig for ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
On his ... |
1827 |
Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff, |
| 1820 | |
Here's a Fly, ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... this ... |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
... and not back to the wall, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... and the South ... |
1800 |
| 1845 | |
See! his spindles ... |
1800 |
How his spindles ... |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
... no Friend ... |
1800 |
No brother has he, no companion, while I |
MS. |
| 1837 | |
... comes ... |
1800 |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Art thou a Statist in the van Of public conflicts trained and bred? —First learn to love one living man; Then may'st thou think upon the dead. A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face. Art thou a Man of purple cheer? A rosy Man, right plump to see? Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near, This grave no cushion is for thee. Or art thou one of gallant pride, A Soldier and no man of chaff? Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside, And lean upon a peasant's staff. Physician art thou?—one, all eyes, Philosopher!—a fingering slave, One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave? Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, O turn aside,—and take, I pray, That he below may rest in peace, Thy ever-dwindling soul, away! A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And he has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world, and his own God; One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling Nor form, nor feeling, great or small; A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, An intellectual All-in-all! Shut close the door; press down the latch; Sleep in thy intellectual crust; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch Near this unprofitable dust. But who is He, with modest looks, And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own. He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noon-day grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love. The outward shows of sky and earth, Of hill and valley, he has viewed; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude. In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart,— The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart. But he is weak; both Man and Boy, Hath been an idler in the land; Contented if he might enjoy The things which others understand. —Come hither in thy hour of strength; Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length; Or build thy house upon this grave. Contents Note |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 |
A B |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1837 | |
... Statesman, ... |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
Of public business ... |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
... to some other place |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
Art thou a man of gallant pride, |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
Thy pin-point of a soul away! |
1800 |
That abject thing, thy soul, away! |
1815 |
| 1837 | |
... nor ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... self-sufficient ... |
1802 |
'He came, the bard, a little Druid wight,Ed.
Of withered aspect; but his eye was keen,
With sweetness mixed. In russet brown bedight,
He crept along, etc.'
"The Poet's Epitaph is disfigured to my taste by the common satire upon parsons and lawyers in the beginning, and the coarse epithet of "pin-point," in the sixth stanza. All the rest is eminently good, and your own."(Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth, January 1801.)—Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the Lover's ear alone, What once to me befel. When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon. Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon. My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover's head! "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!" Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 |
5 10 15 20 25 |
| 1832 | |
... I have known, |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
When she I lov'd, was strong and gay |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... the ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Towards the roof of Lucy's cot |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... the planet dropp'd. |
1800 |
'And houses stand on either handEd.
And thou descendest still.'
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! Contents |
1 2 |
5 10 |
| 1800 | |
A very few ... |
1802 |
| The word "lived" was italicised in the edition of 1800 only. |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed. Contents |
1 2 |
A |
5 10 15 |
The gladness of desire; |
MS. |
| 1836 | |
And thine is, too, the last green field |
1807 |
That ... |
1815 |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The Girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And her's shall be the breathing balm, And her's the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake—The work was done— How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. Contents |
1 2 |
A B |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 |
| 1800 | |
Her Teacher I myself will be, She is my darling;— ... |
MS. 1801, and the edition of 1802. |
| A beauty that shall mould her form ... | 1800 |
"I would rather have written Ruth, and Nature's Lady, than a million such poems."This poem was printed in The Morning Post, March 2nd, 1801.—Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. Contents |
B |
5 |
Heavens! shall this fresh ornament of the world,Ed.
These precious love-lines, pass with other common things,
Amongst the wastes of time? What pity 'twere.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| I come, ye little noisy Crew, Not long your pastime to prevent; I heard the blessing which to you Our common Friend and Father sent. I kissed his cheek before he died; And when his breath was fled, I raised, while kneeling by his side, His hand:—it dropped like lead. Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all That can be done, will never fall Like his till they are dead. By night or day blow foul or fair, Ne'er will the best of all your train Play with the locks of his white hair, Or stand between his knees again. Here did he sit confined for hours; But he could see the woods and plains, Could hear the wind and mark the showers Come streaming down the streaming panes. Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound He rests a prisoner of the ground. He loved the breathing air, He loved the sun, but if it rise Or set, to him where now he lies, Brings not a moment's care. Alas! what idle words; but take The Dirge which for our Master's sake And yours, love prompted me to make. The rhymes so homely in attire With learned ears may ill agree, But chanted by your Orphan Quire Will make a touching melody. Dirge Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone; Thou Angler, by the silent flood; And mourn when thou art all alone, Thou Woodman, in the distant wood! Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum; And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy! Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb. Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth, As he before had sanctified Thy infancy with heavenly truth. Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay, Bold settlers on some foreign shore, Give, when your thoughts are turned this way, A sigh to him whom we deplore. For us who here in funeral strain With one accord our voices raise, Let sorrow overcharged with pain Be lost in thankfulness and praise. And when our hearts shall feel a sting From ill we meet or good we miss, May touches of his memory bring Fond healing, like a mother's kiss. By the Side of the Grave Some Years After Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat; But benefits, his gift, we trace— Expressed in every eye we meet Round this dear Vale, his native place. To stately Hall and Cottage rude Flowed from his life what still they hold, Light pleasures, every day, renewed; And blessings half a century old. Oh true of heart, of spirit gay, Thy faults, where not already gone From memory, prolong their stay For charity's sweet sake alone. Such solace find we for our loss; And what beyond this thought we crave Comes in the promise from the Cross, Shining upon thy happy grave. Note Contents |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 |
"See, upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces, The Fountain [p. 91], etc. etc. in the fifth volume of the Author's Poems."He thus connects it with the poems referring to Matthew in such a way that it may be said to belong to that series; and, while he assigned it to the year 1798, both in the edition of 1845, and in that of 1849-50, it is quite possible that it was written in 1799. "The village school" was the Grammar School of Hawkshead, where Wordsworth spent his boyhood; and the schoolmaster was the Rev. William Taylor, M. A., Emmanuel College, Cambridge, who was the third of the four masters who taught in it during Wordsworth's residence there. He was master from 1782 to 1786. Just before his death he sent for the upper boys of the school (amongst whom was Wordsworth), and calling them into his room, took leave of them with a solemn blessing. This farewell doubtless suggested the lines:
the blessing which to youMr. Taylor was buried in Cartmell Churchyard. In The Prelude, Wordsworth writes of him as "an honoured teacher of my youth;" and there describes, with some minuteness, a visit to his grave. (See book x. l. 532.) It will be seen, however, from the Fenwick note to Matthew, that the Hawkshead Schoolmaster, like the Wanderer in The Excursion, was "made up of several both of his class and men of other occupations;" but of the four masters who taught Wordsworth at Hawkshead—Peake, Christian, Taylor, and Bowman—Taylor was far the ablest, the most interesting, and the most beloved by the boys, and it was doubtless the memory of this man that gave rise to the above poem, and the four which follow it. He was but thirty-two years old when he died, 12th June, 1786. This fact, taken in connection with line 14 of the Address, may illustrate the composite character of Matthew.—Ed.
Our common Friend and Father sent.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| If Nature, for a favourite child, In thee hath tempered so her clay, That every hour thy heart runs wild, Yet never once doth go astray, Read o'er these lines; and then review This tablet, that thus humbly rears In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. —When through this little wreck of fame, Cipher and syllable! thine eye Has travelled down to Matthew's name, Pause with no common sympathy. And; if a sleeping tear should wake, Then be it neither checked nor stayed: For Matthew a request I make Which for himself he had not made. Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Is silent as a standing pool; Far from the chimney's merry roar, And murmur of the village school. The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Of one tired out with fun and madness; The tears which came to Matthew's eyes Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up— He felt with spirit so profound. —Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! Thou happy Soul! and can it be That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain of thee? Contents |
1 2 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 |
| 1815 | |
... the oil ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... to thee? |
1805, and MS. |
"The character of the schoolmaster, had like the Wanderer in The Excursion a solid foundation in fact and reality, but like him it was also in some degree a composition: I will not, and need not, call it an invention—it was no such thing."Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| We walked along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun; And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, "The will of God be done!" A village schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering grey; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass, And by the steaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. "Our work," said I, "was well begun, Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?" A second time did Matthew stop; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, To me he made reply: "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this which I have left Full thirty years behind. "And just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn, Of this the very brother. "With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, to the church-yard come, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave. "Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang;—she would have been A very nightingale. "Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day I e'er had loved before. "And, turning from her grave, I met, Beside the church-yard yew, A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew. "A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: To see a child so very fair, It was a pure delight! "No fountain from its rocky cave E'er tripped with foot so free; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea. "There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine; I looked at her, and looked again: And did not wish her mine!" Matthew is in his grave, yet now, Methinks, I see him stand, As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding in his hand. Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1802 | |
And on that slope of springing corn |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
With rod and line my silent sport |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
And, coming to the church, ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... sung;— ... |
1802 |
| 1820 | |
... his bough |
1800 |
'when you do dance, I wish youEd.
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that, etc.'
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two. We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet. "Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old border-song, or catch That suits a summer's noon; "Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!" In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old Man replied, The grey-haired man of glee: "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; How merrily it goes! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. "And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. "My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. "Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind. "The blackbird amid leafy trees, The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. "With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free: "But we are pressed by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. "If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own; It is the man of mirth. "My days, my Friend, are almost gone, My life has been approved, And many love me; but by none Am I enough beloved." "Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains; "And, Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasped my hand, and said, "Alas! that cannot be." We rose up from the fountain-side; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide; And through the wood we went; And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewildered chimes. Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 |
| 1820 | |
Now, Matthew, let us try to match |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
Down to the vale this water steers, |
1800 |
Down to the vale with eager speed |
C. |
From subterranean darkness freed, |
C. |
Down to the vale this streamlet hies, |
C. |
And glad to greet the sun. |
MS. |
No guide it needs, no check it fears, |
C. |
Down towards the vale with eager speed, |
C. |
| 1837 | |
The blackbird in the summer trees, |
1800 |
| 1832 | |
... is .... |
1800 and MS. |
| 1815 | |
... his hands, ... |
1800 |
"Pour me plaindre a moy, regarde noti tant ce qu'on moste, que ce qui me reste de sauvre, et dedans et dehors."Montaigne, Essais, iii. 12.
"Themistocles quidem, cum ei Simonides, an quis alius artem memoriæ polliceretur, Oblivionis, inquit, mallem; nam memini etiam quæ nolo, oblivisci non possum quæ volo."Cicero, De Finibus, II. 32.—Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Let thy wheel-barrow alone— Wherefore, Sexton, piling still In thy bone-house bone on bone? 'Tis already like a hill In a field of battle made, Where three thousand skulls are laid; These died in peace each with the other,— Father, sister, friend, and brother. Mark the spot to which I point! From this platform, eight feet square, Take not even a finger-joint: Andrew's whole fire-side is there. Here, alone, before thine eyes, Simon's sickly daughter lies, From weakness now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended. Look but at the gardener's pride— How he glories, when he sees Roses, lilies, side by side, Violets in families! By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, too heedless, art the Warden Of a far superior garden. Thus then, each to other dear, Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there, and Susan here, Neighbours in mortality. And, should I live through sun and rain Seven widowed years without my Jane, O Sexton, do not then remove her, Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover! Contents |
1 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 |
| 1845 | |
Thou, old Grey-beard! ... |
1800 |
| stanza | text | variant | footnote | line number |
| I | Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowerets of the hills, And sacred to the sky. And in this smooth and open dell There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a lonely hut; And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish Boy. |
1 |
A |
5 10 |
| II | In clouds above, the lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; Within this lonesome nook the bird Did never build her nest. No beast, no bird hath here his home; Bees, wafted on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers:—to other dells Their burthens do they bear; The Danish Boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own. |
2 3 4 5 6 |
15 20 |
|
| III | A Spirit of noon-day is he; Yet seems a form of flesh and blood; Nor piping shepherd shall he be, Nor herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing; It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue As budding pines in spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face. |
7 8 9 |
25 30 |
|
| IV | A harp is from his shoulder slung; Resting the harp upon his knee; To words of a forgotten tongue, He suits its melody. Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill He is the darling and the joy; And often, when no cause appears, The mountain-ponies prick their ears, —They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sings alone Beside the tree and corner-stone. |
10 11 12 13 |
35 40 |
|
| V | There sits he; in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in his flowery cove: From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war, That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene. Contents |
14 |
45 50 55 |
| 1836 | |
... a cottage hut; |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
He sings his blithest and his best; |
1800 |
She sings, regardless of her rest, |
1820 |
| 1827 | |
But in ... |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
... his ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
The bees borne on ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
Nor ever linger there. |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
He seems ... |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
A piping Shepherd he might be, |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
... nor ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
He rests the harp upon his knee, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
Of flocks and herds both far and near |
1800 |
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills |
1802 |
| 1845 | |
... sits ... |
1800 |
When near this blasted tree you pass, |
| 1815 | |
They seem ... |
1800 |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, —The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "To-night will be a stormy night— You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow." "That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!" At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;—and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept—and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet;" —When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! —Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. Note Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1800 | |
Oft had I heard ... |
Only in the second issue of 1800. |
| 1800 (2nd issue). | |
She dwelt on a wild Moor |
1800 |
She lived on a wide Moor |
MS. |
| 1800 | |
... bright ... |
C. |
| 1800 | |
He snapped ... |
MS. |
| 1827 | |
And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd |
1800 |
And, turning homeward, now they cried |
1815 |
| 1800 | |
The Mother turning homeward cried, |
MS. |
| 1840 | |
Then downward ... |
1800 |
Half breathless ... |
1827 |
| 1800 | |
... and never lost |
MS. |
| 1827 | |
The ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... was ... |
1802 |
'Still as they run they look behind,Ed.
They hear a voice in every wind.'
"He mentioned the origin of some poems. Lucy Gray, that tender and pathetic narrative of a child lost on a common, was occasioned by the death of a child who fell into the lock of a canal. His object was to exhibit poetically entire solitude, and he represents the child as observing the day-moon, which no town or village girl would ever notice."A contributor to Notes and Queries, May 12, 1883, whose signature is F., writes:
"The Scene of Lucy Gray.—In one of the editions of Wordsworth's works the scene of this ballad is said to have been near Halifax, in Yorkshire. I do not think the poet was acquainted with the locality beyond a sight of the country in travelling through on some journey. I know of no spot where all the little incidents mentioned in the poem would exactly fit in, and a few of the local allusions are evidently by a stranger. There is no 'minster'; the church at Halifax from time immemorial has always been known as the 'parish church,' and sometimes as the 'old church,' but has never been styled 'the minster.' The 'mountain roe,' which of course may be brought in as poetically illustrative, has not been seen on these hills for generations, and I scarcely think even the 'fawn at play' for more than a hundred years. These misapplications, it is almost unnecessary to say, do not detract from the beauty of the poetry. Some of the touches are graphically true to the neighbourhood, as, for instance, 'the wide moor,' the 'many a hill,' the 'steep hill's edge,' the 'long stone wall,' and the hint of the general loneliness of the region where Lucy 'no mate, no comrade, knew.' I think I can point out the exact spot—no longer a 'plank,' but a broad, safe bridge—where Lucy fell into the water. Taking a common-sense view, that she would not be sent many miles at two o'clock on a winter afternoon to the town (Halifax, of course), over so lonely a mountain moor—bearing in mind also that this moor overlooked the river, and that the river was deep and strong enough to carry the child down the current—I know only one place where such an accident could have occurred. The clue is in this verse:Sterne Mill Bridge, however, crosses the river Calder, while Wordsworth tells us that the girl lost her life by falling "into the lock of a canal." The Calder runs parallel with the canal near Sterne Mill Bridge. See J.R. Tutin's Wordsworth in Yorkshire.—Ed.'At day-break on a hill they stoodThe hill I take to be the high ridge of Greetland and Norland Moor, and the plank she had to cross Sterne Mill Bridge, which there spans the Calder, broad and rapid enough at any season to drown either a young girl or a grown-up person. The mountain burns, romantic and wild though they be, are not dangerous to cross, especially for a child old enough to go and seek her mother. To sum up the matter, the hill overlooking the moor, the path to and distance from the town, the bridge, the current, all indicate one point, and one point only, where this accident could have happened, and that is the bridge near Sterne Mill. This bridge is so designated from the Sterne family, a branch of whom in the last century resided close by. The author of Tristram Shandy spent his boyhood here; and Lucy Gray, had she safely crossed the plank, would immediately have passed Wood Hall, where the boy Laurence had lived, and, pursuing her way to Halifax, would have gone through the meadows in which stood Heath School, where young Sterne had been educated. The mill-weir at Sterne Mill Bridge was, I believe, the scene of Lucy Gray's death."
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.'
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| When Ruth was left half desolate, Her Father took another Mate; And Ruth, not seven years old, A slighted child, at her own will Went wandering over dale and hill, In thoughtless freedom, bold. And she had made a pipe of straw, And music from that pipe could draw Like sounds of winds and floods; Had built a bower upon the green, As if she from her birth had been An infant of the woods. Beneath her father's roof, alone She seemed to live; her thoughts her own; Herself her own delight; Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay; And, passing thus the live-long day, She grew to woman's height. There came a Youth from Georgia's shore— A military casque he wore, With splendid feathers drest; He brought them from the Cherokees; The feathers nodded in the breeze, And made a gallant crest. From Indian blood you deem him sprung: But no! he spake the English tongue, And bore a soldier's name; And, when America was free From battle and from jeopardy, He 'cross the ocean came. With hues of genius on his cheek In finest tones the Youth could speak: —While he was yet a boy, The moon, the glory of the sun, And streams that murmur as they run, Had been his dearest joy. He was a lovely Youth! I guess The panther in the wilderness Was not so fair as he; And, when he chose to sport and play, No dolphin ever was so gay Upon the tropic sea. Among the Indians he had fought, And with him many tales he brought Of pleasure and of fear; Such tales as told to any maid By such a Youth, in the green shade, Were perilous to hear. He told of girls—a happy rout! Who quit their fold with dance and shout, Their pleasant Indian town, To gather strawberries all day long; Returning with a choral song When daylight is gone down. He spake of plants that hourly change Their blossoms, through a boundless range Of intermingling hues; With budding, fading, faded flowers They stand the wonder of the bowers From morn to evening dews, He told of the magnolia, spread High as a cloud, high over head! The cypress and her spire; —Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam Cover a hundred leagues, and seem To set the hills on fire. The Youth of green savannahs spake, And many an endless, endless lake, With all its fairy crowds Of islands, that together lie As quietly as spots of sky Among the evening clouds. "How pleasant," then he said, "it were A fisher or a hunter there, In sunshine or in shade To wander with an easy mind; And build a household fire, and find A home in every glade! "What days and what bright years! Ah me! Our life were life indeed, with thee So passed in quiet bliss, And all the while," said he, "to know That we were in a world of woe, On such an earth as this!" And then he sometimes interwove Fond thoughts about a father's love: "For there," said he, "are spun Around the heart such tender ties, That our own children to our eyes Are dearer than the sun. "Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me My helpmate in the woods to be, Our shed at night to rear; Or run, my own adopted bride, A sylvan huntress at my side, And drive the flying deer! "Belovèd Ruth!"—No more he said. The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed A solitary tear: She thought again—and did agree With him to sail across the sea, And drive the flying deer. "And now, as fitting is and right, We in the church our faith will plight, A husband and a wife." Even so they did; and I may say That to sweet Ruth that happy day Was more than human life. Through dream and vision did she sink, Delighted all the while to think That on those lonesome floods, And green savannahs, she should share His board with lawful joy, and bear His name in the wild woods. But, as you have before been told, This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, And, with his dancing crest, So beautiful, through savage lands Had roamed about, with vagrant bands Of Indians in the West. The wind, the tempest roaring high, The tumult of a tropic sky, Might well be dangerous food For him, a Youth to whom was given So much of earth—so much of heaven, And such impetuous blood. Whatever in those climes he found Irregular in sight or sound Did to his mind impart A kindred impulse, seemed allied To his own powers, and justified The workings of his heart. Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, The beauteous forms of nature wrought, Fair trees and gorgeous flowers; The breezes their own languor lent; The stars had feelings, which they sent Into those favored bowers. Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween That sometimes there did intervene Pure hopes of high intent: For passions linked to forms so fair And stately, needs must have their share Of noble sentiment. But ill he lived, much evil saw, With men to whom no better law Nor better life was known; Deliberately, and undeceived, Those wild men's vices he received, And gave them back his own. His genius and his moral frame Were thus impaired, and he became The slave of low desires: A Man who without self-control Would seek what the degraded soul Unworthily admires. And yet he with no feigned delight Had wooed the Maiden, day and night Had loved her, night and morn: What could he less than love a Maid Whose heart with so much nature played So kind and so forlorn! Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, Encompassed me on every side When I, in confidence and pride, Had crossed the Atlantic main. "Before me shone a glorious world— Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled To music suddenly: I looked upon those hills and plains, And seemed as if let loose from chains, To live at liberty. "No more of this; for now, by thee, Dear Ruth! more happily set free With nobler zeal I burn; My soul from darkness is released, Like the whole sky when to the east The morning doth return." Full soon that better mind was gone; No hope, no wish remained, not one,— They stirred him now no more; New objects did new pleasure give, And once again he wished to live As lawless as before. Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, They for the voyage were prepared, And went to the sea-shore, But, when they thither came, the Youth Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth Could never find him more. God help thee, Ruth!-Such pains she had, That she in half a year was mad, And in a prison housed; And there, with many a doleful song Made of wild words, her cup of wrong She fearfully caroused. Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, Nor pastimes of the May; —They all were with her in her cell; And a clear brook with cheerful knell Did o'er the pebbles play. When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, There came a respite to her pain; She from her prison fled; But of the Vagrant none took thought; And where it liked her best she sought Her shelter and her bread. Among the fields she breathed again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free; And, coming to the Banks of Tone, There did she rest; and dwell alone Under the greenwood tree. The engines of her pain, the tools That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, And airs that gently stir The vernal leaves—she loved them still; Nor ever taxed them with the ill Which had been done to her. A Barn her winter bed supplies; But, till the warmth of summer skies And summer days is gone, (And all do in this tale agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none. An innocent life, yet far astray! And Ruth will, long before her day, Be broken down and old: Sore aches she needs must have! but less Of mind, than body's wretchedness, From damp, and rain, and cold. If she is prest by want of food, She from her dwelling in the wood Repairs to a road-side; And there she begs at one steep place Where up and down with easy pace The horsemen-travellers ride. That oaten pipe of hers is mute, Or thrown away; but with a flute Her loneliness she cheers: This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, At evening in his homeward walk The Quantock woodman hears. I, too, have passed her on the hills Setting her little water-mills By spouts and fountains wild— Such small machinery as she turned Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, A young and happy Child! Farewell! and when thy days are told, Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould Thy corpse shall buried be, For thee a funeral bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing A Christian psalm for thee. Note Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 |
A B C D E F G H I |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 225 230 235 240 245 250 255 |
| 1802 | |
And so, not seven years old, |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
And from that oaten pipe could draw |
1800 |
| This stanza was added in the edition of 1802. |
| 1827 | |
She pass'd her time; and in this way |
1802 |
| 1836 | |
Ah no! ... |
1800 |
| 1805 | |
... bare ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
He spake of plants divine and strange |
1800 |
... every hour ... |
1802 |
| Of march and ambush, siege and fight, Then did he tell; and with delight The heart of Ruth would ache; Wild histories they were, and dear: But 'twas a thing of heaven to hear When of himself he spake! |
Only in the editions of 1802 and 1805. |
| Sometimes most earnestly he said; "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead: False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain Encompass'd me on every side When I, in thoughtlessness and pride, Had cross'd the Atlantic Main. Whatever in those Climes I found Irregular in sight or sound Did to my mind impart A kindred impulse, seem'd allied To my own powers, and justified The workings of my heart. Nor less to feed unhallow'd thought The beauteous forms of nature wrought, Fair trees and lovely flowers; The breezes their own languor lent; The stars had feelings which they sent Into those magic bowers. Yet, in my worst pursuits, I ween, That often there did intervene Pure hopes of high intent; My passions, amid forms so fair And stately, wanted not their share Of noble sentiment. So was it then, and so is now: For, Ruth! with thee I know not how I feel my spirit burn Even as the east when day comes forth; And to the west, and south, and north, The morning doth return. It is a purer better mind: O Maiden innocent and kind What sights I might have seen! Even now upon my eyes they break!" —And he again began to speak Of Lands where he had been. |
| 1836 | |
And then he said "How sweet it were |
1800 |
| 1845 | |
A gardener in the shade, |
1800 |
In sunshine or through shade |
1836 |
| 1836 | |
... sweet ... |
1800 |
| 1832 | |
Dear ... |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... unhallow'd ... |
1802 and MS. |
| 1845 | |
... lovely ... |
1800 |
| 1845 | |
... magic ... |
1800 |
... gorgeous ... |
1815 |
| 1800 | |
That often ... |
1802 |
| 1800 | |
For passions, amid forms so fair |
1802 |
| 1800 | |
Ill did he live ... |
1802 |
| 1805 | |
When I, in thoughtlessness and pride, |
1802 |
When first, in confidence and pride, |
1820 |
| 1840 and C. | |
"It was a fresh and glorious world, |
1805 |
A banner bright that shone unfurled |
1836 |
| Lines 163-168, and 175-180, were added in 1802. Lines 169-174 were added in 1805. All these were omitted in 1815, but were restored in 1820. |
| 1845 | |
So was it then, and so is now: |
1802 |
"But wherefore speak of this? for now, |
1805 |
Dear Ruth! with thee ... |
1836 |
| 1836 | |
Even as the east when day comes forth; |
1802 |
It is my purer better mind |
MS. |
| 1845 | |
But now the pleasant dream was gone, |
1800 |
Full soon that purer mind ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
And there, exulting in her wrongs, |
1800 |
And there she sang tumultuous songs, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
wild brook.... |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
And to the pleasant Banks of Tone |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
... grief, ... |
1800 |
| 1805 | |
(And in this tale we all agree) |
1800 |
| 1805 | |
The neighbours grieve for her, and say |
1802 |
| This stanza first appeared in the edition of 1802. |
"The tall aspiring Gordonia lacianthus ... gradually changing colour, from green to golden yellow, from that to a scarlet, from scarlet to crimson, and lastly to a brownish purple, ... so that it may be said to change and renew its garments every morning throughout the year."See Travels through North and South Carolina, Georgia, East Florida, the Cherokee Country, etc., by William Bartram (1791), pp. 159, 160.—Ed.
"Its thick foliage of a dark green colour is flowered over with large milk-white, fragrant blossoms, ... renewed every morning, and that in such incredible profusion that the tree appears silvered over with them, and the ground beneath covered with the fallen flowers. It, at the same time, continually pushes forth new twigs, with young buds on them."(Bartram's Travels, etc., p. 159.)—Ed.
"The Cypressus distichia stands in the first order of North American trees. Its majestic stature, lifting its cumbrous top towards the skies, and casting a wide shade upon the ground, as a dark intervening cloud," etc.(Bartram's Travels, p. 88).—Ed.
"has traced, to a note-book of Coleridge's in the British Museum, the source from which Wordsworth derived his description of Georgian scenery in Ruth. He does, I know, refer to Bartram, but the whole passage is a poetical rendering, and a pretty close one, of Bartram's poetical narrative. I have a portrait—the frontispiece of Bartram's Travels—of Mico Chlucco, king of the Seminoles, whose feathers nod in the breeze just as did the military casque of the 'youth from Georgia's shore.'"Ed.
"North and south almost endless green plains and meadows, embellished with islets and projecting promontories of high dark forests, where the pyramidal Magnolia grandiflora ... conspicuously towers."(Bartram's Travels, p. 145).—Ed.
'It was a fresh and glorious world'for stanzas 2, 3, and 4 of the above six in this note, but it inserts these omitted stanzas later on as Nos. 27, 28, 29.—Ed.
"was altered, Lamb having observed that it was not English. I like it better myself;'(i.e. the version of 1800)
"but certainly to carouse cups—that is to empty them—is the genuine English."Ed.
"Sunday, March 8th, 1802.—I stitched up The Pedlar, wrote out Ruth, read it with the alterations.... William brought two new stanzas of Ruth."The transpositions of stanzas, and their omission from certain editions and their subsequent re-introduction, in altered form, in later ones, make it extremely difficult to give the textual history of Ruth in footnotes. They are even more bewildering than the changes introduced into Simon Lee.—Ed.
| 1798 | ← | end of Volume II: 1799 | → | 1800 |
| Main Contents |
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| On Nature's invitation do I come, By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead, That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth, With all its unappropriated good, My own, and not mine only, for with me Entrenched—say rather peacefully embowered— Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, A younger orphan of a home extinct, The only daughter of my parents dwells: Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir; Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'er Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts, But either she, whom now I have, who now Divides with me this loved abode, was there, Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned, Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang; The thought of her was like a flash of light Or an unseen companionship, a breath Or fragrance independent of the wind. In all my goings, in the new and old Of all my meditations, and in this Favourite of all, in this the most of all.... Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in. Now in the clear and open day I feel Your guardianship: I take it to my heart; 'Tis like the solemn shelter of the night. But I would call thee beautiful; for mild, And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art, Dear valley, having in thy face a smile, Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased, Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy lake, Its one green island, and its winding shores, The multitude of little rocky hills, Thy church, and cottages of mountain-stone Clustered like stars some few, but single most, And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, Or glancing at each other cheerful looks, Like separated stars with clouds between. Note Contents |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 |
"The front of it faces the lake; behind is a small plot of orchard and garden ground, in which there is a spring and rocks; the enclosure shelves upwards towards the woody sides of the mountains above it."AThe following is De Quincey's description of it, as he saw it in the summer of 1807.
"A white cottage, with two yew trees breaking the glare of its white walls" (these yews still stand on the eastern side of the cottage). "A little semi-vestibule between two doors prefaced the entrance into what might be considered the principal room of the cottage. It was an oblong square, not above eight and a half feet high, sixteen feet long, and twelve broad; wainscoted from floor to ceiling with dark polished oak, slightly embellished with carving. One window there was—a perfect and unpretending cottage window, with little diamond panes, embowered at almost every season of the year with roses; and, in the summer and autumn, with a profusion of jasmine, and other fragrant shrubs.... I was ushered up a little flight of stairs, fourteen in all, to a little drawing-room, or whatever the reader chooses to call it. Wordsworth himself has described the fireplace of this room as hisOther poems of later years refer, much more fully than the above, to this cottage, and its orchard ground, where so many of Wordsworth's lyrics were composed.'Half-kitchen and half-parlour fire.'It was not fully seven feet six inches high, and in other respects pretty nearly of the same dimensions as the rustic hall below. There was, however, in a small recess, a library of perhaps three hundred volumes, which seemed to consecrate the room as the poet's study and composing room, and such occasionally it was. But far oftener he both studied, as I found, and composed on the high road."B
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| Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak, When hitherward we journeyed, side by side, Through burst of sunshine and through flying showers, Paced the long vales, how long they were, and yet How fast that length of way was left behind, Wensley's rich vale and Sedbergh's naked heights. The frosty wind, as if to make amends For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps, And drove us onward like two ships at sea; Or, like two birds, companions in mid-air, Parted and reunited by the blast. Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced In that stern countenance; for our souls thence drew A feeling of their strength. The naked trees, The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared To question us, "Whence come ye? To what end?" Note Contents |
5 10 15 |
"We left Sockburn last Tuesday morning. We crossed the Tees by moonlight in the Sockburn fields, and after ten good miles riding came in sight of the Swale. It is there a beautiful river, with its green banks and flat holms scattered over with trees. Four miles further brought us to Richmond, with its huge ivied castle, its friarage steeple, its castle tower resembling a huge steeple.... We were now in Wensleydale, and D. and I set off side by side to foot it as far as Kendal.... We reached Askrigg, twelve miles, before six in the evening, having been obliged to walk the last two miles over hard frozen roads.... Next morning the earth was thinly covered with snow, enough to make the road soft and prevent its being slippery. On leaving Askrigg we turned aside to see another waterfall. It was a beautiful morning, with driving snow showers, which disappeared by fits, and unveiled the east, which was all one delicious pale orange colour. After walking through two small fields we came to a mill, which we passed, and in a moment a sweet little valley opened before us, with an area of grassy ground, and a stream dashing over various laminæ of black rocks close under a bank covered with firs; the bank and stream on our left, another woody bank on our right, and the flat meadow in front, from which, as at Buttermere, the stream had retired, as it were, to hide itself under the shade. As we walked up this delightful valley we were tempted to look back perpetually on the stream, which reflected the orange lights of the morning among the gloomy rocks, with a brightness varying with the agitation of the current. The steeple of Askrigg was between us and the east, at the bottom of the valley; it was not a quarter of a mile distant.... The two banks seemed to join before us with a facing of rock common to them both. When we reached this bottom the valley opened out again; two rocky banks on each side, which, hung with ivy and moss, and fringed luxuriantly with brushwood, ran directly parallel to each other, and then approaching with a gentle curve at their point of union, presented a lofty waterfall, the termination of the valley. It was a keen frosty morning, showers of snow threatening us, but the sun bright and active. We had a task of twenty-one miles to perform in a short winter's day.... On a nearer approach the waters seemed to fall down a tall arch or niche that had shaped itself by insensible moulderings in the wall of an old castle. We left this spot with reluctance, but highly exhilarated.... It was bitter cold, the wind driving the snow behind us in the best style of a mountain storm. We soon reached an inn at a place called Hardrane, and descending from our vehicles, after warming ourselves by the cottage fire, we walked up the brook-side to take a view of a third waterfall. We had not walked above a few hundred yards between two winding rocky banks before we came full upon the waterfall, which seemed to throw itself in a narrow line from a lofty wall of rock, the water, which shot manifestly to some distance from the rock, seeming to be dispersed into a thin shower scarcely visible before it reached the bason. We were disappointed in the cascade itself, though the introductory and accompanying banks were an exquisite mixture of grandeur and beauty.... After cautiously sounding our way over stones of all colours and sizes, encased in the clearest water formed by the spray of the fall, we found the rock, which before had appeared like a wall, extending itself over our heads, like the ceiling of a huge cave, from the summit of which the waters shot directly over our heads into a bason, and among fragments wrinkled over with masses of ice as white as snow, or rather, as Dorothy says, like congealed froth. The water fell at least ten yards from us, and we stood directly behind it, the excavation not so deep in the rock as to impress any feeling of darkness, but lofty and magnificent; but in connection with the adjoining banks excluding as much of the sky as could well be spared from a scene so exquisitely beautiful. The spot where we stood was as dry as the chamber in which I am now sitting, and the incumbent rock, of which the groundwork was limestone, veined and dappled with colours which melted into each other with every possible variety of colour. On the summit of the cave were three festoons, or rather wrinkles, in the rock, run up parallel like the folds of a curtain when it is drawn up. Each of these was hung with icicles of various length, and nearly in the middle of the festoon, in the deepest valley of the waves that ran parallel to each other, the stream shot from the rows of icicles in irregular fits of strength, and with a body of water that varied every moment. Sometimes the stream shot into the bason in one continued current; sometimes it was interrupted almost in the midst of its fall, and was blown towards part of the waterfall at no great distance from our feet like the heaviest thunder shower. In such a situation you have at every moment a feeling of the presence of the sky. Large fleecy clouds drove over our heads above the rush of the water, and the sky appeared of a blue more than usually brilliant. The rocks on each side, which, joining with the side of this cave, formed the vista of the brook, were chequered with three diminutive waterfalls, or rather courses of water. Each of these was a miniature of all that summer and winter can produce of delicate beauty. The rock in the centre of the falls, where the water was most abundant, a deep black, the adjoining parts yellow, white, purple, and dove colour, covered with water—plants of the most vivid green, and hung with streaming icicles, that in some places seem to conceal the verdure of the plants and the violet and yellow variegation of the rocks; and in some places render the colours more brilliant. I cannot express to you the enchanting effect produced by this Arabian scene of colour as the wind blew aside the great waterfall behind which we stood, and alternately hid and revealed each of these fairy cataracts in irregular succession, or displayed them with various gradations of distinctness as the intervening spray was thickened or dispersed. What a scene too in summer! In the luxury of our imagination we could not help feeding upon the pleasure which this cave, in the heat of a July noon, would spread through a frame exquisitely sensible. That huge rock on the right, the bank winding round on the left with all its living foliage, and the breeze stealing up the valley, and bedewing the cavern with the freshest imaginable spray. And then the murmur of the water, the quiet, the seclusion, and a long summer day."Ed.
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| Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian maid Adorned with wreaths of myrtle; Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, And there did they beguile the day With love and gentle speeches, Beneath the budding beeches. From many knights and many squires The Bruce had been selected; And Gordon, fairest of them all, By Ellen was rejected. Sad tidings to that noble Youth! For it may be proclaimed with truth, If Bruce hath loved sincerely, That Gordon loves as dearly. But what are Gordon's form and face, His shattered hopes and crosses, To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes, Reclined on flowers and mosses? Alas that ever he was born! The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing; Beholds them blest and blessing. Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce He launched a deadly javelin! Fair Ellen saw it as it came, And, starting up to meet the same, Did with her body cover The Youth, her chosen lover. And, falling into Bruce's arms, Thus died the beauteous Ellen, Thus, from the heart of her True-love, The mortal spear repelling. And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; And fought with rage incessant Against the Moorish crescent. But many days, and many months, And many years ensuing, This wretched Knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing. So, coming his last help to crave, Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave His body he extended, And there his sorrow ended. Now ye, who willingly have heard The tale I have been telling, May in Kirkonnel churchyard view The grave of lovely Ellen: By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; And, for the stone upon his head, May no rude hand deface it, And its forlorn Hic jacet. Note Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 |
| 1815 | |
The Gordon ... |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
But what is Gordon's beauteous face? |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
And, starting up, to Bruce's heart |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
Fair Ellen saw it when it came, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
So coming back across the wave, |
1800 |
And coming back ... |
1802 |
"A lady of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell in Dumfriesshire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick: that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has been alleged he was a Bell of Blackel-house. The addresses of the latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the Churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot, surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of their private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces."See Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. ii. p. 317.
I wish I were where Helen lies!Ed.
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell lee!
Cursed be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!
Oh think ye na my heart was sair,
When my love dropt down and spake nae mair!
There did she swoon wi' meikle care,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.
As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirkconnell lee—
I lighted down, my sword did draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.
Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll weave a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I dee!
Oh that I were where Helen lies!
Day and night on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste, and come to me!"
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
Were I with thee I would be blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.
I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding sheet drawn o'er my e'en,
And I in Helen's arms lying
On fair Kirkconnell lee.
I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies,
For her sake that died for me!
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| The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor With the slow motion of a summer's cloud And now, as he approached a vassal's door, "Bring forth another horse!" he cried aloud. "Another horse!"—That shout the vassal heard And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey; Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third Which he had mounted on that glorious day. Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes; The horse and horseman are a happy pair; But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, There is a doleful silence in the air. A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, That as they galloped made the echoes roar; But horse and man are vanished, one and all; Such race, I think, was never seen before. Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain: Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern; But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one, The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? The bugles that so joyfully were blown? —This chase it looks not like an earthly chase; Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side; I will not stop to tell how far he fled, Nor will I mention by what death he died; But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn; He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy: He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn, But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned; And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched: His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched The waters of the spring were trembling still. And now, too happy for repose or rest, (Never had living man such joyful lot!) Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. And climbing up the hill—(it was at least Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now Such sight was never seen by human eyes: Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, Down to the very fountain where he lies. "I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot, And a small arbour, made for rural joy; 'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, A place of love for damsels that are coy. "A cunning artist will I have to frame A basin for that fountain in the dell! And they who do make mention of the same, From this day forth, shall call it Hart-Leap Well. "And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known, Another monument shall here be raised; Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone, And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. "And, in the summer-time when days are long, I will come hither with my Paramour; And with the dancers and the minstrel's song We will make merry in that pleasant bower. "Till the foundations of the mountains fail My mansion with its arbour shall endure;— The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!" Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. —Soon did the Knight perform what he had said; And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered, A cup of stone received the living well; Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, And built a house of pleasure in the dell. And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,— Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. And thither, when the summer days were long Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour; And with the dancers and the minstrel's song Made merriment within that pleasant bower. The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, And his bones lie in his paternal vale.— But there is matter for a second rhyme, And I to this would add another tale. |
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| The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, It chanced that I saw standing in a dell Three aspens at three corners of a square; And one, not four yards distant, near a well. What this imported I could ill divine: And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, I saw three pillars standing in a line,— The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head: Half wasted the square mound of tawny green; So that you just might say, as then I said, "Here in old time the hand of man hath been." I looked upon the hill both far and near, More doleful place did never eye survey; It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, And Nature here were willing to decay. I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired, Came up the hollow:—him did I accost, And what this place might be I then inquired. The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old! But something ails it now: the spot is curst. "You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood— Some say that they are beeches, others elms— These were the bower; and here a mansion stood, The finest palace of a hundred realms! "The arbour does its own condition tell; You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream; But as to the great Lodge! you might as well Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. "There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, Will wet his lips within that cup of stone; And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. "Some say that here a murder has been done, And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part, I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, That it was all for that unhappy Hart. "What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past! Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, Are but three bounds—and look, Sir, at this last— O Master! it has been a cruel leap. "For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race; And in my simple mind we cannot tell What cause the Hart might have to love this place, And come and make his death-bed near the well. "Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, Lulled by the fountain in the summer tide; This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wandered from his mother's side. "In April here beneath the flowering thorn He heard the birds their morning carols sing; And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. "Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade; The sun on drearier hollow never shone; So will it be, as I have often said, Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone." "Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine: This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell; His death was mourned by sympathy divine. "The Being, that is in the clouds and air, That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. "The pleasure-house is dust:—behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom; But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. "She leaves these objects to a slow decay, That what we are, and have been, may be known; But at the coming of the milder day, These monuments shall all be overgrown. "One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals; Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." Note Contents |
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A B C |
100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 180 |
| 1836 | |
He turn'd aside towards a Vassal's door, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
Brach, ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... he chid and cheer'd them on |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
With fawning kindness ... |
MS. |
| 1802 | |
... of the chace? |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
This race it looks not like an earthly race; |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
... smack'd ... |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
... act; |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
And foaming like a mountain cataract. |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
His nose half-touch'd ... |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
Was never man in such a joyful case, |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
.... place. |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
... turning ... |
1800 |
| 1845 | |
Nine ... |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
Three several marks which with his hoofs the beast |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
... verdant ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... living ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... gallant brute! ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
And soon the Knight perform'd what he had said, |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
... journey'd with his paramour; |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... to ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... has ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... hills ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
From the stone on the summit of the steep |
1800 |
... upon ... |
1802 |
| 1832 | |
... this ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... scented ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
But now here's ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
For them the quiet creatures ... |
1800 |
'Of moving accidents by flood and field.'Ed.
"Beloved Vale!" I said. "when I shall con ...Ed.
'For words, like Nature, half revealEd.
And half conceal the Soul within.'
"June 20, 1881. Visited 'Hart-Leap Well,' the subject of Wordsworth's poem. It is situated on the road side leading from Richmond to Askrigg, at a distance of not more than three and a-half miles from Richmond, and not five miles as stated in the prefatory note to the poem. The 'three aspens at three corners of a square' are things of the past; also the 'three stone pillars standing in a line, on the hill above. In a straight line with the spring of water, and where the pillars would have been, a wall has been built; so that it is very probable the stone pillars were removed at the time of the building of this wall. The scenery around answers exactly to the descriptionThe Rev. Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton wrote to me on June 18, 1883:More doleful place did never eye survey;"It is barren moor for miles around. The water still falls into the 'cup of stone,' which appeared to be of very long standing. Within ten yards of the well is a small tree, at the same side of the road as the well, on the right hand coming from Richmond."
It seemed as if the spring time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.
...
Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade.
"The tree is not a Thorn, but a Lime. It is evidently an old one, but is now in full and beautiful leaf. It stands on the western side of the road, and a few yards distant from it. The well is somewhat nearer the road. This side of the road is open to the fell. On the other side the road is bounded by a stone wall: another wall meeting this one at right angles, exactly opposite the well. I ascended the hill on the north side of this wall for some distance, but could find no trace of any rough-hewn stone. Descending on the other side, I found in the wall one, and only one, such stone. I should say the base was in the wall. The stone itself leans outwards; so that, at the top, three of its square faces can be seen; and two, if not three, of these faces bear marks of being hammer-dressed. The distance from the stone to the well is about 40 yards, and the height of the stone out of the ground about 3 or 4 feet.Charles Lamb to Wordsworth, May 1819. (See The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. p. 20.)—Ed.
"The ascent from the well is a gentle one, not 'sheer'; nor does there appear to be any hollow by which the shepherd could ascend. On the western side of the road there is a wide plain, with a slight fall in that direction."
"Hart-Leap Well is the tale for me; in matter as good as this (Peter Bell); in manner infinitely before it, in my poor judgment."
"There sometimes doth a leaping fishThis was branded by a critic of these days, in a review ascribed to Mrs. Barbauld, as unnatural and absurd. I admire the genius of Mrs. Barbauld and am certain that, had her education been favourable to imaginative influences, no female of her day would have been more likely to sympathise with that image, and to acknowledge the truth of the sentiment.—I. F.]
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer."
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| The valley rings with mirth and joy; Among the hills the echoes play A never never ending song, To welcome in the May. The magpie chatters with delight; The mountain raven's youngling brood Have left the mother and the nest; And they go rambling east and west In search of their own food; Or through the glittering vapours dart In very wantonness of heart. Beneath a rock, upon the grass, Two boys are sitting in the sun; Their work, if any work they have, Is out of mind—or done. On pipes of sycamore they play The fragments of a Christmas hymn; Or with that plant which in our dale We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, Their rusty hats they trim: And thus, as happy as the day, Those Shepherds wear the time away. Along the river's stony marge The sand-lark chants a joyous song; The thrush is busy in the wood, And carols loud and strong. A thousand lambs are on the rocks, All newly born! both earth and sky Keep jubilee, and more than all, Those boys with their green coronal; They never hear the cry, That plaintive cry! which up the hill Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew We'll for our whistles run a race." —Away the shepherds flew; They leapt—they ran—and when they came Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, Seeing that he should lose the prize, "Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries— James stopped with no good will: Said Walter then, exulting; "Here You'll find a task for half a year. "Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross— Come on, and tread where I shall tread." The other took him at his word, And followed as he led. It was a spot which you may see If ever you to Langdale go; Into a chasm a mighty block Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock: The gulf is deep below; And, in a basin black and small, Receives a lofty waterfall. With staff in hand across the cleft The challenger pursued his march; And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained The middle of the arch. When list! he hears a piteous moan— Again!—his heart within him dies— His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, He totters, pallid as a ghost, And, looking down, espies A lamb, that in the pool is pent Within that black and frightful rent. The lamb had slipped into the stream, And safe without a bruise or wound The cataract had borne him down Into the gulf profound. His dam had seen him when he fell, She saw him down the torrent borne; And, while with all a mother's love She from the lofty rocks above Sent forth a cry forlorn, The lamb, still swimming round and round, Made answer to that plaintive sound. When he had learnt what thing it was, That sent this rueful cry; I ween The Boy recovered heart, and told The sight which he had seen. Both gladly now deferred their task; Nor was there wanting other aid— A Poet, one who loves the brooks Far better than the sages' books, By chance had thither strayed; And there the helpless lamb he found By those huge rocks encompassed round. He drew it from the troubled pool, And brought it forth into the light: The Shepherds met him with his charge, An unexpected sight! Into their arms the lamb they took, Whose life and limbs the flood had spared; Then up the steep ascent they hied, And placed him at his mother's side; And gently did the Bard Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, And bade them better mind their trade. Note Contents |
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B |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 |
| 1800 | |
The valley rings with mirth and joy; |
1836 |
| 1836 | |
It seems they have no work to do |
1800 |
Boys that have had no work to do, |
1827 |
| 1805 | |
I'll run with you a race."—No more— |
1800 |
We'll for this Whistle run a race." ... |
1802 |
| 1836 | |
Said Walter then, "Your task is here, |
1800 |
'Twill baffle you for half a year. |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
Till you have cross'd where I shall cross, |
1800 |
"Now cross where I shall cross,—come on |
1802 |
"Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross— |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
James proudly took him at his word, |
1800 |
... the deed. |
1802 |
The other took him at his word, |
1805 |
| 1827 | |
... began ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... pale as any ghost, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... he spies |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
He drew it gently from the pool, |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Said they, "He's neither maim'd nor scarr'd"— |
1800 |
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| The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side. Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone; With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel, While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal. The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my own. 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare! I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair. Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away: But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay. Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place I unobserved could see the workings of her face: If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing: "What ails thee, young One? what? Why pull so at thy cord? Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be; Rest, little young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee? "What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art: This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers; And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears! "If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain; For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear, The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here. "Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first in places far away; Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none, And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home: A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam? A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been. "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new. "Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough; My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. "It will not, will not rest!—Poor creature, can it be That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee? Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear. "Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there; The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. "Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep—and at break of day I will come to thee again!" —As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. Again, and once again, did I repeat the song; "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong, For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own." Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 |
| 1836 | |
No other sheep ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Towards the Lamb she look'd, and from that shady place |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
... is ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... which ... |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
... are ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... Poor creature, it must be |
MS. |
| 1802 | |
... the raven in the sky, |
1800 |
| Italics first used in 1815. |
| This word (damsel) was italicised from 1813 to 1832. |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| 'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town; His staff is a sceptre—his grey hairs a crown; And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,—'mid the joy Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain That his life hath received, to the last will remain. A Farmer he was; and his house far and near Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale! Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing; And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection—as generous as he. Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,— The fields better suited the ease of his soul: He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight, The quiet of nature was Adam's delight. For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor, Familiar with him, made an inn of his door: He gave them the best that he had; or, to say What less may mislead you, they took it away. Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm: The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm: At length, what to most is a season of sorrow, His means are run out,—he must beg, or must borrow. To the neighbours he went,—all were free with their money; For his hive had so long been replenished with honey, That they dreamt not of dearth;—He continued his rounds, Knocked here-and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds. He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf, And something, it might be, reserved for himself: Then (what is too true) without hinting a word, Turned his back on the country—and off like a bird. You lift up your eyes!—but I guess that you frame A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame; In him it was scarcely a business of art, For this he did all in the ease of his heart. To London—a sad emigration I ween— With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green; And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume,— Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; But nature is gracious, necessity kind, And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind, He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout; Twice as fast as before does his blood run about; You would say that each hair of his beard was alive, And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes About work that he knows, in a track that he knows; But often his mind is compelled to demur, And you guess that the more then his body must stir. In the throng of the town like a stranger is he, Like one whose own country's far over the sea; And Nature, while through the great city he hies, Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise. This gives him the fancy of one that is young, More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue; Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs, And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes. What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets; With a look of such earnestness often will stand, You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand. Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers, Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw, Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw; With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem, And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream. Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way, Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay; He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown, And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,— If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there. The breath of the cows you may see him inhale, And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale. Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid, May one blade of grass spring over thy head; And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be, Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree. Note Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 |
| 1837 | |
Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak |
1815 |
... still enlivens his cheek. |
1827 |
| 1840 | |
There fashion'd that countenance, which, in spite of a stain |
1815 |
| date | |
There's an old man in London, the prime of old men, |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... name ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
Was the Top of the Country, ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
Not less than the skill of an Exchequer Teller |
1800 |
How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale |
1815 |
| 1815 | |
... plough'd land, ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... the noise of the bowl, |
1800 |
On the works of the world, on the bustle and sound, |
Only in the text of 1800. |
| 1815 | |
... were ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
For they all still imagin'd his hive full of honey; |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
... this ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... he kept to himself; |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
You lift up your eyes, "O the merciless Jew!" |
1800 |
... —and I guess that you frame |
1815 |
| 1815 | |
... scarce e'en ... |
1800 |
| Italics first used in 1815. |
| 1815 | |
... lawn ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
He stood all alone like ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... needs ... |
1815 |
| 1815 | |
Both stable-boy, errand-boy, porter and groom; |
1800 |
He's ten birth-days younger, he's green, and he's stout, |
| 1815 | |
He's ten birth-days younger, he's green, and he's stout, |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
You'd ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... does ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... in ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... have come ... |
1815 |
| 1815 | |
...he'll stand |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
Where proud Covent-Garden, in frost and in snow, |
1800 |
... her fruit ... |
1815 |
Where the apples are heap'd on the barrows in piles, |
Only in the text of 1800. |
| 1837 | |
... in the waggons, and smells to the hay; |
1800 |
... in the Waggon, and smells at ... |
1815 |
| 1815 | |
... has mown, |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... where'er ... |
1800 |
| 1850 | |
... spring up o'er ... |
1800 |
... over ... |
1815 |
| 1799 | ← | end of Volume II: 1800 | → | Poems on the Naming of Places |
| Main Contents |
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents
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| It was an April morning: fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied Was softened down into a vernal tone. The spirit of enjoyment and desire, And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves seemed eager to urge on The steps of June; as if their various hues Were only hindrances that stood between Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed Such an entire contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer.—Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The Stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; But 'twas the foliage of the rocks—the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze: And, on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain-cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." —Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. Note Contents |
1 2 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 |
| 1845 | |
The budding groves appear'd as if in haste |
1800 |
| 1845 | |
... seem'd as though ... |
1800 |
"I have a fancy for a spot just beyond Goody Bridge to the left, where the brook makes a curve, and returns to the road two hundred yards farther on. But I have not discovered a trace of authority in favour of the idea farther than that the wooded bend of the brook with the stepping stones across it, connected with a field-path recently stopped, was a very favourite haunt of Wordsworth's. At the upper part of this bend, near to the place where the brook returns to the road, is a deep pool at the foot of a rush of water. In this pool, a man named Wilson was drowned many years ago. He lived at a house on the hill called Score Crag, which, if my conjecture as to Emma's Dell is right, is the 'single mountain cottage' on a 'summit, distant a short space.' Wordsworth, happening to be walking at no great distance, heard a loud shriek. It was that of Mr. Wilson, the father, who had just discovered his son's body in the beck."In the "Reminiscences" of the poet, by the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge, which were contributed to the Memoirs of Wordsworth, written by his nephew (vol. ii. pp. 300-315), there is a record of a walk they took up Easdale to this place, entering the field just at the spot which Dr. Cradock supposes to be "Emma's Dell."
"He turned aside at a little farm-house, and took us into a swelling field to look down on the tumbling stream which bounded it, and which we saw precipitated at a distance, in a broad white sheet, from the mountain." (This refers to Easdale Force.) "Then, as he mused for an instant, he said,This walk and conversation took place in October 1836. If any one is surprised that Wordsworth, supposing him to have been then looking into the very dell on which he wrote the above poem in 1800, did not name it to Mr. Coleridge, he must remember that he was not in the habit of speaking of the places he had memorialised in verse, and that in 1836 his "Sister Emmeline" had for a year been a confirmed invalid at Rydal. I have repeatedly followed Easdale beck all the way up from its junction with the Rothay to the Tarn, and found no spot corresponding so closely to the realistic detail of this poem as the one suggested by Dr. Cradock. There are two places further up the dale where the "sallies of glad sound" such as are referred to in the poem, are even more distinctly audible; but they are not at "a sudden turning," as is the spot above Goody Bridge. If one leaves the Easdale road at this bridge, and keeps to the side of the beck for a few hundred yards, till he reaches the turning, —especially if it be a bright April morning, such as that described in the poem,—and remembers that this path by the brook was a favourite resort of Wordsworth and his sister, the probability of Dr. Cradock's suggestion will be apparent. Lady Richardson, who knew the place, and appreciated the poem as thoroughly as any of Wordsworth's friends, told me that she concurred in this identification of the "dell."—Ed.'I have often thought what a solemn thing it would be could we have brought to our mind at once all the scenes of distress and misery which any spot, however beautiful and calm before us, has been witness to since the beginning. That water break, with the glassy quiet pool beneath it, that looks so lovely, and presents no images to the mind but of peace—there, I remember, the only son of his father, a poor man who lived yonder, was drowned.'"
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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| Amid the smoke of cities did you pass The time of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love The living Beings by your own fire-side, With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow to meet the sympathies of them Who look upon the hills with tenderness, And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse, However trivial, if you thence be taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times. While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower, The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?" he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry, I, like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size had chiselled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. —Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered between malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechised, And this was my reply:—"As it befel, One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself. —'Twas that delightful season when the broom, Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold. Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; And when we came in front of that tall rock That eastward looks, I there stopped short—and stood Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower That intermixture of delicious hues, Along so vast a surface, all at once, In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. —When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again; That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone; Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice,—old Skiddaw blew His speaking-trumpet;—back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. —Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplished by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched With dreams and visionary impulses To me alone imparted, sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills. And, while we both were listening, to my side The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished To shelter from some object of her fear. —And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm And silent morning, I sat down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chiselled out in those rude characters Joanna's name deep in the living stone:— And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock." Note Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 |
| 1827 | |
Your time ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Is slow towards... |
1800 |
... toward.... |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
... are taught... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... betwixt ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short, |
1800 |
... toward ... |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
And trac'd ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
Is not for me to tell; but sure I am |
1800 |
| 1845 | |
Joanna's name upon the living stone. |
1800 |
"When the road was enlarged, not many years ago, the roots of the trees were found by the workmen."(Dr. Cradock to the editor.) The
'tall rockby the banks of the Rotha, presenting a "lofty barrier" "from base to summit," is manifestly a portion of Helmcrag. It is impossible to know whether Wordsworth carved Joanna Hutchinson's name anywhere on Helmcrag, and it is useless to enquire. If he did so, the discovery of the place would not help any one to understand or appreciate the poem. It is obvious that he did not intend to be literally exact in details, as the poem was written in 1800, and addressed to Joanna Hutchinson,—who is spoken of as having been absent from Grasmere "for two long years;" and Wordsworth says that he carved the Runic characters in memoriam eighteen months after that summer morning when he heard the echo of her laugh. But the family took up residence at Grasmere only in December 1799, and the "Poems on the Naming of Places" were published before the close of 1800. The effect of these lines to Joanna, however, is certainly not impaired—it may even be enhanced—by our inability to localise them. Only one in the list of places referred to can occasion any perplexity, viz., Hammar-scar, since it is a name now disused in the district. It used to be applied to some rocks on the flank of Silver-how, to the wood around them, and also to the gorge between Silver-how and Loughrigg. Hammar, from the old Norse hamar, signifies a steep broken rock.
That eastward looks'
Which Copland scarce had spoke, but quickly every HillPolyolbion, The Thirtieth Song, ll. 155-164. Any one who compares this passage with Wordsworth's Joanna will see the difference between the elaborate fancy of a topographical narrator, and the vivid imagination of a poetical idealist. A somewhat similar instance of indebtedness—in which the debt is repaid by additional insight—is seen when we compare a passage from Sir John Davies's Orchestra, or a poem on Dancing (stanza 49), with one from The Ancient Mariner, Part VI. stanzas 2 and 3—although there was more of the true imaginative light in Davies than in Drayton.
Upon her verge that stands, the neighbouring valleys fill;
Helvillon from his height, it through the mountains threw,
From whence as soon again, the sound Dunbalrase drew,
From whose stone-trophèd head, it on the Wendrosse went,
Which tow'rds the sea again, resounded it to Dent,
That Brodwater therewith within her banks astound,
In sailing to the sea, told it to Egremound,
Whose buildings, walks, and streets, with echoes loud and long,
Did mightily commend old Copland for her song.
For lo, the sea that fleets about the land,Davies.
And like a girdle clips her solid waist,
Music and measure both doth understand;
For his great crystal eye is always cast
Up to the moon, and on her fixed fast:
And as she danceth in her palid sphere
So danceth he about his centre here.
Still as a slave before his lord,Coleridge.
The ocean hath no blast;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the moon is cast—
If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.
"William was composing all the morning ... W. read us the poem of Joanna, beside the Rothay, by the roadside."Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in January 1801, of
"these continuous echoes in the story of 'Joanna's laugh,' when the mountains and all the scenery seem absolutely alive."Ed.
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| There is an Eminence,—of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun; We can behold it from our orchard-seat; And, when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this Peak, so high Above us, and so distant in its height, Is visible; and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heavens, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds. And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved With such communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me, Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. Note Contents |
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5 10 15 |
| 1840 | |
... this Cliff, ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name. |
1800 |
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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| A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy: And there myself and two belovèd Friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist Had altogether yielded to the sun, Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. —Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, It was our occupation to observe Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore— Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake, Suddenly halting now—a lifeless stand! And starting off again with freak as sudden; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, Making report of an invisible breeze That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul. —And often, trifling with a privilege Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now, And now the other, to point out, perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair Either to be divided from the place On which it grew, or to be left alone To its own beauty. Many such there are, Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern, So stately, of the queen Osmunda named; Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance. —So fared we that bright morning: from the fields, Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls. Delighted much to listen to those sounds, And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced Along the indented shore; when suddenly, Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen Before us, on a point of jutting land, The tall and upright figure of a Man Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, Angling beside the margin of the lake. "Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed, "The Man must be, who thus can lose a day Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire Is ample, and some little might be stored Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time." Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached Close to the spot where with his rod and line He stood alone; whereat he turned his head To greet us—and we saw a Man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean That for my single self I looked at them, Forgetful of the body they sustained.— Too weak to labour in the harvest field, The Man was using his best skill to gain A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake That knew not of his wants. I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was changed To serious musing and to self-reproach. Nor did we fail to see within ourselves What need there is to be reserved in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity. —Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My Friend, Myself, and She who then received The same admonishment, have called the place By a memorial name, uncouth indeed As e'er by mariner was given to bay Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast; And Point Rash-Judgment is the name it bears. Note Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 |
| 1815. (Compressing five lines into three.) | |
... thistle's beard, |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
Its very playmate, and its moving soul. |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
... tall plant ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... sweet ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... with listening ... |
C. |
| 1820 | |
And in the fashion which I have describ'd, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... we saw |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... a lake. |
1802 |
| 1827 | |
... the margin of the lake. |
1800 |
Did all cry out, that he must be indeed |
1815 |
The better the uncouther;at least because of the incident which gave rise to the poem. The date of composition is fixed by Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal,
Do roses stick like burrs?
"10th Oct. 1800, Wm. sat up after me, writing Point Rash-Judgment."Ed.
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| Our walk was far among the ancient trees: There was no road, nor any woodman's path; But a thick umbrage—checking the wild growth Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf Beneath the branches—of itself had made A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods. All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well, Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun, Or wind from any quarter, ever come, But as a blessing to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field. The spot was made by Nature for herself; The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them; but it is beautiful; And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it, that in his death-hour Its image would survive among his thoughts: And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still Nook, With all its beeches, we have named from You! Note Contents |
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5 10 15 20 |
| 1836 | |
But the ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... on the soft green turf |
1800 |
... smooth dry ground |
MS. |
| 1827 | |
... which ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... for You. |
1802 |
'With all its poplars, we have named from you.'Of the circular pool beneath this fall it may be said, as Wordsworth describes it, that
'... both flocks and herds might drinkand a "small slip of lawn" might easily have existed there in his time. We cannot, however, be confident as to the locality, and I add the opinion of several, whose judgment may be deferred to. Dr. Cradock writes:
On its firm margin, even as from a well;'
"As to Mary Hutchinson's pool, I think that it was not on the beck anywhere, but some detached little pool, far up the hill, to the eastwards of the Hall, in 'the woods.' The description does not well suit any part of Rydal beck; and no spot thereon could long 'remain unknown,' as the brook was until lately much haunted by anglers."My difficulty as to a site "far up the hill" is, that it must have been a pool of some size, if "both flocks and herds might drink" all round it; and there is no stream, scarce even a rill that joins Rydal beck on the right, all the way up from its junction with the Rothay. The late Mr. Hull of Rydal Cottage, wrote:
"Although closely acquainted with every nook about Rydal Park, I have never been able to discover any spot corresponding to that described in Wordsworth's lines to M. H. It is possible, however, that the 'small bed of water' may have been a temporary rain pool, such as sometimes lodges in the hollows on the mountain-slope after heavy rain."Mr. F. M. Jones, the agent of the Rydal property, writes:
"I do not know of any pool of water in the Upper Rydal Park. There are some pools up the river, 'Mirror Pool' among them; but I hardly think there can ever have been 'beech-trees' growing near them."There are many difficulties, and the place cannot now be identified. Wordsworth's own wish will doubtless be realised,
'The travellers know it not, and 'twill remainEd.
Unknown to them.'
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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| I | "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Exclaimed an angry Voice, "Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self Between me and my choice!" A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, That, all bespattered with his foam, And dancing high and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home. |
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|
| II | "Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny Thing! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The Flood was tyrannous and strong; The patient Briar suffered long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be past; But, seeing no relief, at last, He ventured to reply. |
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15 20 |
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| III | "Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not; Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this sequestered spot Once lived a happy life! You stirred me on my rocky bed— What pleasure through my veins you spread The summer long, from day to day, My leaves you freshened and bedewed; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay. |
3 |
25 30 |
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| IV | "When spring came on with bud and bell, Among these rocks did I Before you hang my wreaths to tell That gentle days were nigh! And in the sultry summer hours, I sheltered you with leaves and flowers; And in my leaves—now shed and gone, The linnet lodged, and for us two Chanted his pretty songs, when you Had little voice or none. |
4 |
B |
35 40 |
| V | "But now proud thoughts are in your breast— What grief is mine you see, Ah! would you think, even yet how blest Together we might be! Though of both leaf and flower bereft, Some ornaments to me are left— Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, With which I, in my humble way, Would deck you many a winter day, A happy Eglantine!" |
5 |
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| VI | What more he said I cannot tell, The Torrent down the rocky dell Came thundering loud and fast; I listened, nor aught else could hear; The Briar quaked—and much I fear Those accents were his last. Note Contents |
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55 |
| 1836 | |
... a thundering Voice, |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
A falling Water swoln with snows |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
... in this, our natal spot, |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... wreath ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... Winter's day, |
1800 |
| 1840 | |
The stream came thundering down the dell |
1800 |
The Torrent thundered down the dell |
1815 |
With aggravated haste; |
1827 |
The Stream came thundering down the dell |
1836 |
And now the Storm-blast came, and heEd.
Was tyrannous and strong.
"The plant itself of course has long disappeared: but in following up the rill through the copse, above the cottages, I found an unusually large Eglantine, growing by the side of the stream."(Dr Cradock to the editor, in 1877.) It still grows luxuriantly there.
"Friday, 23rd April 1802.—It being a beautiful morning, we set off at eleven o'clock, intending to stay out of doors all the morning. We went towards Rydal, under Nab Scar. The sun shone and we were lazy. Coleridge pitched upon several places to sit down upon; but we could not be all of one mind respecting sun and shade, so we pushed on to the foot of the Scar. It was very grand when we looked up, very stony; here and there a budding tree. William observed that the umbrella Yew-tree that breasts the wind had lost its character as a tree, and had become like solid wood. Coleridge and I pushed on before. We left William sitting on the stones, feasting with silence, and I sat down upon a rocky seat, a couch it might be, under the Bower of William's 'Eglantine,' 'Andrew's Broom.' He was below us, and we could see him. He came to us, and repeated his Poems, while we sat beside him. We lingered long, looking into the vales; Ambleside Vale, with the copses, the village under the hill, and the green fields; Rydale, with a lake all alive and glittering, yet but little stirred by breezes; and our own dear Grasmere, making a little round lake of Nature's own, with never a house, never a green field, but the copses and the bare hills enclosing it, and the river flowing out of it. Above rose the Coniston Fells, in their own shape and colour, ... the sky, and the clouds, and a few wild creatures. Coleridge went to search for something new. We saw him climbing up towards a rock. He called us, and we found him in a bower,—the sweetest that was ever seen. The rock on one side is very high, and all covered with ivy, which hung loosely about, and bore bunches of brown berries. On the other side, it was higher than my head. We looked down on the Ambleside vale, that seemed to wind away from us, the village lying under the hill. The fir tree island was reflected beautifully.... About this bower there is mountain-ash, common ash, yew tree, ivy, holly, hawthorn, roses, flowers, and a carpet of moss. Above at the top of the rock there is another spot. It is scarce a bower, a little parlour, not enclosed by walls, but shaped out for a resting-place by the rocks, and the ground rising about it. It had a sweet moss carpet. We resolved to go and plant flowers, in both these places to-morrow."This extract is taken from the "Journal" as originally transcribed by me in 1889. When it appears in this edition it will be greatly enlarged.—Ed.
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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| I | His simple truths did Andrew glean Beside the babbling rills; A careful student he had been Among the woods and hills. One winter's night, when through the trees The wind was roaring, on his knees His youngest born did Andrew hold: And while the rest, a ruddy quire, Were seated round their blazing fire, This Tale the Shepherd told. |
1 |
5 10 |
|
| II | "I saw a crag, a lofty stone As ever tempest beat! Out of its head an Oak had grown, A Broom out of its feet. The time was March, a cheerful noon— The thaw wind, with the breath of June, Breathed gently from the warm south-west: When, in a voice sedate with age, This Oak, a giant and a sage, His neighbour thus addressed:— |
2 |
15 20 |
|
| III | "'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge, The Frost hath wrought both night and day, Wedge driving after wedge. Look up! and think, above your head What trouble, surely, will be bred; Last night I heard a crash—'tis true, The splinters took another road— I see them yonder—what a load For such a Thing as you! |
25 30 |
||
| IV | "'You are preparing as before To deck your slender shape; And yet, just three years back—no more— You had a strange escape: Down from yon cliff a fragment broke; It thundered down, with fire and smoke, And hitherward pursued its way; This ponderous block was caught by me, And o'er your head, as you may see, 'Tis hanging to this day! |
3 |
35 40 |
|
| V | "'If breeze or bird to this rough steep Your kind's first seed did bear; The breeze had better been asleep, The bird caught in a snare: For you and your green twigs decoy The little witless shepherd-boy To come and slumber in your bower; And, trust me, on some sultry noon, Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! Will perish in one hour. |
4 |
45 50 |
|
| VI | "'From me this friendly warning take'— The Broom began to doze, And thus, to keep herself awake, Did gently interpose: 'My thanks for your discourse are due; That more than what you say is true, I know, and I have known it long; Frail is the bond by which we hold Our being, whether young or old, Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. |
5 6 |
55 60 |
|
| VII | "'Disasters, do the best we can, Will reach both great and small; And he is oft the wisest man, Who is not wise at all. For me, why should I wish to roam? This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant heritage; My father many a happy year, Spread here his careless blossoms, here Attained a good old age. |
7 |
65 70 |
|
| VIII | "'Even such as his may be my lot. What cause have I to haunt My heart with terrors? Am I not In truth a favoured plant! On me such bounty Summer pours, That I am covered o'er with flowers; And, when the Frost is in the sky, My branches are so fresh and gay That you might look at me and say, This Plant can never die. |
8 9 |
75 80 |
|
| IX | "'The butterfly, all green and gold, To me hath often flown, Here in my blossoms to behold Wings lovely as his own. When grass is chill with rain or dew, Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe Lies with her infant lamb; I see The love they to each other make, And the sweet joy which they partake, It is a joy to me.' |
85 90 |
||
| X | "Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued Her speech, until the stars of night Their journey had renewed; But in the branches of the oak Two ravens now began to croak Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; And to her own green bower the breeze That instant brought two stripling bees To rest, or murmur there. |
10 |
95 100 |
|
| XI | "One night, my Children! from the north There came a furious blast; At break of day I ventured forth, And near the cliff I passed. The storm had fallen upon the Oak, And struck him with a mighty stroke, And whirled, and whirled him far away; And, in one hospitable cleft, The little careless Broom was left To live for many a day." Note Contents |
11 |
105 110 |
| 1820 | |
... thundering, ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... half giant and half sage, |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
It came, you know, with fire and smoke |
1800 |
And hitherward it bent its way. |
1802 |
| 1836 | |
The Thing had better been asleep, |
1800 |
Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep, |
1802 |
| 1820 | |
That it is true, and more than true, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... be we young or old, |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Here spread ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
The Spring for me a garland weaves |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
... on me ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
To feed and ... |
1800 |
To rest and ... |
1815 |
| 1815 | |
One night the Wind came from the North |
1800 |
"The poem of The Oak and the Broom proceeded from his" (Wordsworth) "beholding a tree in just such a situation as he described the broom to be in."Ed.
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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| 'Tis said, that some have died for love: And here and there a church-yard grave is found In the cold north's unhallowed ground, Because the wretched man himself had slain, His love was such a grievous pain. And there is one whom I five years have known; He dwells alone Upon Helvellyn's side: He loved—the pretty Barbara died; And thus he makes his moan: Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid When thus his moan he made: "Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart: I look—the sky is empty space; I know not what I trace; But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. "O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, That murmur once so dear, when will it cease? Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, It robs my heart of peace. Thou Thrush, that singest loud—and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or choose another tree. "Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained; If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough Headlong yon waterfall must come, Oh let it then be dumb! Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now. "Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers, Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale, Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers, And stir not in the gale. For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend,— Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear." The Man who makes this feverish complaint Is one of giant stature, who could dance Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine To store up kindred hours for me, thy face Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know Such happiness as I have known to-day. Note Contents |
1 2 3 4 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 |
| 1836 | |
... Ye leaves, |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... yon ... |
MS. |
| 1836 | |
Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers |
1800 |
... the rainbow ... |
1802 |
| 1836 | |
... or ... |
1800 |
'Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,and Browning's May and Death:
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
An' I sae weary, fu' o' care!'
'I wish that when you died last May,This mood of mind Wordsworth appreciated as fully as the opposite, or complementary one, which finds expression in the great Ode, Intimations of Immortality (vol. viii.), l. 26.
Charles, there had died along with you
Three parts of spring's delightful things;
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.'
'No more shall grief of mine the season wrong,'and which Browning expresses in other verses of his lyric, and repeatedly elsewhere. The allusion in the last stanza of this poem is to Wordsworth's sister Dorothy.—Ed.
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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| "Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away! Not a soul in the village this morning will stay; The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds." —Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen; With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow, The girls on the hills made a holiday show. Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before, Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door; A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last. Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away! Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. Perhaps to himself at that moment he said; "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead." But of this in my ears not a word did he speak; And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
1 |
B C |
5 10 15 20 |
| 1827 | |
The basin of box-wood, just six months before, |
1800 |
The basin had offered, just six months before, |
1820 |
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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| Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep. Clouds that love through air to hasten, Ere the storm its fury stills, Helmet-like themselves will fasten On the heads of towering hills. What, if through the frozen centre Of the Alps the Chamois bound, Yet he has a home to enter In some nook of chosen ground: And the Sea-horse, though the ocean Yield him no domestic cave, Slumbers without sense of motion, Couched upon the rocking wave. If on windy days the Raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less she loves her haven In the bosom of the cliff. The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, Vagrant over desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands. Day and night my toils redouble, Never nearer to the goal; Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul. Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 |
| This stanza was added in the edition of 1827. |
| 1827 | |
Though almost with eagle pinion |
1800 |
Though, as if with eagle pinion |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
Though the Sea-horse in the ocean |
1800 |
Yet he slumbers—by the motion |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
... he loves his haven |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
On ... |
1800 |
| This stanza was added in 1827. |
| 1800 | |
Never—never does the trouble |
1815 |
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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| These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping Son of Idleness, Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name—only the turf we tread And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sate Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage,—as it chanced, that day, Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who, in the open air, with due accord Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent Many a long look of wonder: and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other locked; and, down the path That from his cottage to the church-yard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 'Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to entrust His expectations to the fickle winds And perilous waters; with the mariners A fellow-mariner;—and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds Of caves and trees:—and, when the regular wind Between the tropics filled the steady sail, And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence, would often hang Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam Flashed round him images and hues that wrought In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country grey Which he himself had worn. And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is returned, With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne In all his hardships, since that happy time When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. —They were the last of all their race: and now, When Leonard had approached his home, his heart Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, He to the solitary church-yard turned; That, as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn If still his Brother lived, or to the file Another grave was added.—He had found Another grave,—near which a full half-hour He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew Such a confusion in his memory, That he began to doubt; and even to hope That he had seen this heap of turf before,— That it was not another grave; but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked Through fields which once had been well known to him: And oh what joy this recollection now Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes, And, looking round, imagined that he saw Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, And everlasting hills themselves were changed. By this the Priest, who down the field had come, Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short,—and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write fool upon his forehead.—Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 |
C |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 |
|
| Leonard | You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life: Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months; And yet, some changes must take place among you: And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, Can trace the finger of mortality, And see, that with our threescore years and ten We are not all that perish.—I remember, (For many years ago I passed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields By the brook-side—'tis gone—and that dark cleft! To me it does not seem to wear the face Which then it had! |
125 130 135 |
||
| Priest | Nay, Sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the same— |
19 |
140 |
|
| Leonard | But, surely, yonder— | |||
| Priest | Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false.—On that tall pike (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs which bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning—one hath disappeared; The other, left behind, is flowing still, For accidents and changes such as these, We want not store of them;—a water-spout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks: The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge; A wood is felled:—and then for our own homes! A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries,—one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side— Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys! |
20 21 |
D |
145 150 155 160 165 170 |
| Leonard | Yet your Church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, Cross-bones nor skull,—type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. |
22 |
175 |
|
| Priest | Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me! The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread If every English church-yard were like ours; Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth: We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. And then, for our immortal part! we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains. |
E |
180 185 |
|
| Leonard | Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves? |
190 |
||
| Priest | For eight-score winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening, [23] If you were seated at my chimney's nook, By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round; Yet all in the broad highway of the world. Now there's a grave—your foot is half upon it,— It looks just like the rest; and yet that man Died broken-hearted. |
23 |
195 200 |
|
| Leonard | 'Tis a common case. We'll take another: who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the church-yard wall. |
205 |
||
| Priest | That's Walter Ewbank. He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. Through five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds Of their inheritance, that single cottage— You see it yonder! and those few green fields. They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son, Each struggled, and each yielded as before A little—yet a little,—and old Walter, They left to him the family heart, and land With other burthens than the crop it bore. Year after year the old man still kept up A cheerful mind,—and buffeted with bond, Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank, And went into his grave before his time. Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him God only knows, but to the very last He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale: His pace was never that of an old man: I almost see him tripping down the path With his two grandsons after him:—but you, Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, Have far to travel,—and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer— |
24 25 26 |
F |
210 215 220 225 230 |
| Leonard | But those two Orphans! | 27 | ||
| Priest | Orphans!—Such they were— Yet not while Walter lived:—for, though their parents Lay buried side by side as now they lie, The old man was a father to the boys, Two fathers in one father: and if tears, Shed when he talked of them where they were not, And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, This old Man, in the day of his old age, Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir, To hear a stranger talking about strangers, Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred! Ay—you may turn that way—it is a grave Which will bear looking at. |
235 240 245 |
||
| Leonard | These boys—I hope They loved this good old Man?— |
250 |
||
| Priest | They did—and truly: But that was what we almost overlooked, They were such darlings of each other. Yes, Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter, The only kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to both by reason of his age, With a more fond, familiar, tenderness; They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them!—From their house the school Is distant three short miles, and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every water-course And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained At home, go staggering through the slippery fords, Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him, On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, Their two books lying both on a dry stone, Upon the hither side: and once I said, As I remember, looking round these rocks And hills on which we all of us were born, That God who made the great book of the world Would bless such piety— |
28 29 30 31 |
255 260 265 270 275 |
|
| Leonard | It may be then— | |||
| Priest | Never did worthier lads break English bread; The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, Could never keep those boys away from church, Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner Among these rocks, and every hollow place That venturous foot could reach, to one or both Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills; They played like two young ravens on the crags: Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well As many of their betters—and for Leonard! The very night before he went away, In my own house I put into his hand A bible, and I'd wager house and field That, if he be alive, he has it yet. |
32 33 34 35 |
280 285 290 295 |
|
| Leonard | It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be A comfort to each other— |
|||
| Priest | That they might Live to such end is what both old and young In this our valley all of us have wished, And what, for my part, I have often prayed: But Leonard— |
36 |
300 |
|
| Leonard | Then James still is left among you! | |||
| Priest | Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: They had an uncle;—he was at that time A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas: And, but for that same uncle, to this hour Leonard had never handled rope or shroud: For the boy loved the life which we lead here; And though of unripe years, a stripling only, His soul was knit to this his native soil. But, as I said, old Walter was too weak To strive with such a torrent; when he died, The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep, A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:— Well—all was gone, and they were destitute, And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. If there were one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, From the Great Gavel, down by Leeza's banks, And down the Enna, far as Egremont. The day would be a joyous festival; And those two bells of ours, which there you see— Hanging in the open air—but, O good Sir! This is sad talk—they'll never sound for him— Living or dead.—When last we heard of him, He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary coast.—'Twas not a little That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt, Before it ended in his death, the Youth Was sadly crossed.—Poor Leonard! when we parted, He took me by the hand, and said to me, If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, To live in peace upon his father's land, And lay his bones among us. |
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 |
G |
305 310 315 320 325 330 335 |
| Leonard | If that day Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; He would himself, no doubt, be happy then As any that should meet him— |
340 | ||
| Priest | Happy! Sir— | |||
| Leonard | You said his kindred all were in their graves, And that he had one Brother— |
345 | ||
| Priest | That is but A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; And Leonard being always by his side Had done so many offices about him, That, though he was not of a timid nature, Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, The little colour that he had was soon Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined— |
350 355 |
||
| Leonard | But these are all the graves of full-grown men! | |||
| Priest | Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us; He was the child of all the dale—he lived Three months with one, and six months with another; And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love: And many, many happy days were his. But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief His absent Brother still was at his heart. And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found (A practice till this time unknown to him) That often, rising from his bed at night, He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping He sought his brother Leonard.—You are moved! Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, I judged you most unkindly. |
44 |
360 365 370 |
|
| Leonard | But this Youth, How did he die at last? |
|||
| Priest | One sweet May-morning, (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, With two or three companions, whom their course Of occupation led from height to height Under a cloudless sun—till he, at length, Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge The humour of the moment, lagged behind. You see yon precipice;—it wears the shape Of a vast building made of many crags; And in the midst is one particular rock That rises like a column from the vale, Whence by our shepherds it is called, The Pillar. Upon its aëry summit crowned with heath, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place On their return, they found that he was gone. No ill was feared; till one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house Which at that time was James's home, there learned That nobody had seen him all that day: The morning came, and still he was unheard of: The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook Some hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noon They found him at the foot of that same rock Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies! |
45 46 47 48 49 |
H |
375 380 385 390 395 400 |
| Leonard | And that then is his grave!—Before his death You say that he saw many happy years? |
50 |
||
| Priest | Ay, that he did— | |||
| Leonard | And all went well with him?— | 405 | ||
| Priest | If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes. | 51 | ||
| Leonard | And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?— | |||
| Priest | Yes, long before he died, he found that time Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talked about him with a cheerful love. |
410 |
||
| Leonard | He could not come to an unhallowed end! | |||
| Priest | Nay, God forbid!—You recollect I mentioned A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured That, as the day was warm, he had lain down On the soft heath, and, waiting for his comrades, He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep He to the margin of the precipice Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong: And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think, His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock It had been caught mid way; and there for years It hung;—and mouldered there. |
52 53 54 |
415 420 425 |
|
| The Priest here ended— The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt A gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,— And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!" The Vicar did not hear the words: and now, He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating That Leonard would partake his homely fare: The other thanked him with an earnest voice; But added, that, the evening being calm, He would pursue his journey. So they parted. It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove That overhung the road: he there stopped short, And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed All that the Priest had said: his early years Were with him:—his long absence, cherished hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquished all his purposes. He travelled back to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, Reminding him of what had passed between them; And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, That it was from the weakness of his heart He had not dared to tell him who he was. This done, he went on shipboard, and is now A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. Note Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
55 56 57 58 59 60 |
430 435 440 445 450 455 |
| 1815 | |
... their ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
Upon the forehead of a jutting crag |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... youngest child, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
Which ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... who ere his thirteenth year |
1800 |
| 1840 | |
... green ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... at length, ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... traffic in ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... which he liv'd there, ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... of one whom he so dearly lov'd, |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Towards the church-yard he had turn'd aside, |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... and he had hopes |
1800 |
... and hope was his |
1832 |
| 1815 | |
As up the vale he came that afternoon, |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... the ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... he thought that he perceiv'd |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
And the eternal hills, ... |
1800 |
And the everlasting hills, ... |
1820 |
| 1815 | |
He scann'd him ... |
1800 |
| 1800 | |
... cheeks, ... |
1802 |
| 1815 | |
Why, Sir, ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
Companions for each other: ten years back, |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
Why we have store of them! ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... winter's evening, |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
For five ... |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
... still preserv'd |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... in ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... these ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... For |
1800 |
The only Kinsman near them, and though he |
1815 |
| 1820 | |
Was ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... when elder boys perhaps |
1800 |
| 1832 | |
... I've ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw, |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... these .... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Where foot could come, to one or both of them |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... and I'd wager twenty pounds, |
1800 |
.. and I'd wager house and field |
1827 |
| 1815 | |
... that end, ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... this ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
And, though a very Stripling, twelve years old; |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
'Tis now twelve years ... |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
... was ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... a very festival, |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... the Lad |
1800 |
| 1832 | |
If ever the day came when he was rich, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... liv'd ... |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
With two or three companions whom it chanc'd |
1800 |
... it almost looks |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... it is called, The Pillar. |
1800 |
... but they did not find him |
1802 |
Which at that time ... |
1802 |
Upon the Summit—at the appointed place. |
1815 |
... they found that he was gone. |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Some went, and some towards the Lake; ... |
1800 |
Some hastened, some towards the Lake: ... |
1820 |
| 1815 | |
... Lad ... |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
... said ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... Lad ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Upon the grass, ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... he perish'd: at the time, |
1800 |
must have held |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
... for midway in the cliff |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... but he felt |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... fervent |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes, |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... travell'd on ... |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
That night, address'd a letter to the Priest |
1800 |
"Friday, 6th August (1800).—In the morning I copied The Brothers."Ed.
'the gleam,It is the only poem of his referring to Ennerdale; but perhaps the chief association with that dale, to those who visit it after becoming acquainted with this poem, will be the fact that the brothers Ewbank were supposed to have spent their youth under the shadow of the Pillar, and Leonard to have had this conversation, on his return from sea, with the venerable priest of Ennerdale. The district is described with all that local accuracy which Wordsworth invariably showed in idealization. The height whence James Ewbank is supposed to have fallen is not the Pillar-Rock—a crag somewhat difficult to ascend, except by practised climbers, and which has only been accessible since mountaineering became an art and a passion to Englishmen. But, if we suppose the conversation with the priest of Ennerdale to have taken place at the Bridge, below the Lake—as that is the only place where there is both a hamlet and "a churchyard"—the "precipice" will refer to the Pillar "Mountain." Both are alluded to in the poem. The lines,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream.'
You see yon precipice;—it wears the shapeare definite enough. The great mass of the Pillar Mountain is first referred to, and then the Rock which is a characteristic spur, halfway up the mountain on its northern side. The "aëry summit crowned with heath," however, on which "the loiterer" "lay stretched at ease," could neither be the top of this "rock" nor the summit of the "mountain": not the former, because there is no heath on it, and it would be impossible for a weary man, loitering behind his companions, to ascend it to rest; not the latter, because no one resting on the summit of the mountain could be "not unnoticed by his comrades," and they would not pass that way over the top of the mountain "on their return" to Ennerdale. This is an instance, therefore, in which precise localization is impossible. Probably Wordsworth did not know either that the pillar "rock" was bare on the summit, or that it had never been ascended in 1800; and he idealised it to suit his imaginative purpose. In connection with this poem, a remark he made to the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge may be recalled.
Of a vast building made of many crags;
And in the midst is one particular rock
That rises like a column from the vale,
Whence by our shepherds it is called, The Pillar,
"He said there was some foundation in fact, however slight, for every poem he had written of a narrative kind; ... The Brothers was founded on a young shepherd, in his sleep, having fallen down a crag, his staff remaining suspended mid-way."(See the Memoirs of Wordsworth, by the late Bishop of Lincoln, vol. ii. p. 305.) It should be added that the character of Leonard Ewbank was drawn in large part from that of the poet's brother John—Ed.
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| I | Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother: You could not say in one short day What love they bore each other. A garland, of seven lilies, wrought! Seven Sisters that together dwell; But he, bold Knight as ever fought, Their Father, took of them no thought, He loved the wars so well. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! |
1 |
5 10 |
|
| II | Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a Rover brave To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the Leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. |
15 20 |
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| III | Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The Seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing. But now, upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly to left, to right— Of your fair household, Father-knight, Methinks you take small heed! Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. |
25 30 |
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| IV | Away the seven fair Campbells fly, And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful Rovers follow. Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!" Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. |
2 |
35 40 |
|
| V | Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather; They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die, And let us die together." A lake was near; the shore was steep; There never foot had been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. |
3 |
45 50 55 |
|
| VI | The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little Islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say, those sisters fair, By faeries all are buried there, And there together sleep. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
60 65 |
| 1836 | |
I could ... |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
The Irish Rovers ... |
MS. |
| 1807 | |
The sisters ran like mountain sheep |
MS. |
And in together did they leap |
MS. |
"William read us The Seven Sisters."It is uncertain whether this refers to his own poem or not, but I incline to think it does.—Ed.
"This poem, in the groundwork of the story, is from the German of Frederica Brun."Ed.
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| There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a counsellor's bag; To the top of Great How did it please them to climb: And there they built up, without mortar or lime, A Man on the peak of the crag. They built him of stones gathered up as they lay: They built him and christened him all in one day, An urchin both vigorous and hale; And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones. Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones; The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, And, in anger or merriment, out of the north, Coming on with a terrible pother, From the peak of the crag blew the giant away. And what did these school-boys?—The very next day They went and they built up another. —Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works By Christian disturbers more savage than Turks, Spirits busy to do and undo: At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag; Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag; And I'll build up a giant with you. Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 |
A |
5 10 15 20 |
| 1800 | |
From the meadows of Armath, on Thirlmere's wild shore, |
1827 |
| 1800 | |
... were once tempted to climb; |
1827 |
| 1820 | |
In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks, |
1800 |
| This last stanza was omitted from the editions of 1805 and 1815. It was restored in 1820. |
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| I marvel how Nature could ever find space For so many strange contrasts in one human face: There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, Would be rational peace—a philosopher's ease. There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs; Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy. There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there, There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name. This picture from nature may seem to depart, Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart; And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he. Note Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
1 2 3 |
5 10 15 20 |
| 1837 | |
For the weight and the levity seen in his face: |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
... and ... |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art, |
1800 |
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| If thou in the dear love of some one Friend Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts Will sometimes in the happiness of love Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not unmoved Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones, The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell. Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man, After long exercise in social cares And offices humane, intent to adore The Deity, with undistracted mind, And meditate on everlasting things, In utter solitude.—But he had left A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised To heaven he knelt before the crucifix, While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of his Companion, he would pray that both (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So prayed he:—as our chronicles report, Though here the Hermit numbered his last day Far from St. Cuthbert his belovèd Friend, Those holy Men both died in the same hour. Note Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
1 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 |
If thou in the dear love of some one friend |
1800 |
He dwelt in solitude.—But he had leftAnd the following variants occur in 1802 and 1805:
A Fellow-labourer, whom ...
Make the heart sick, ....The text of 1815, which is continued in 1820, begins thus:
... he would pray that both
This Island, guarded from profane approach |
1815 and 1820 |
Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth |
1827 |
"The remains of his hermitage are still visible, being built of stone and mortar, and formed into two apartments, one of which, about twenty feet long and sixteen feet wide, seems to have been his chapel; the other, of less dimensions, his cell. Near these ruins the late Sir Wilfred Lawson (to whose representative the island at present belongs) erected some years ago a small octagonal cottage, which, being built of unhewn stone, and artificially mossed over, has a venerable appearance."(See Guide to the Lakes, by John Robinson, D.D., 1819). This cottage has now disappeared. The following version of this "Inscription" occurs in a letter from Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont, dated 26th November 1811:
This Island, guarded from profane approachIn a previous letter to Sir George Beaumont, dated 16th November 1811:
By mountains high and waters widely spread,
Gave to St. Herbert a benign retreat.
Upon a staff supported, and his Brow
White with the peaceful diadem of age.
Hither he came—a self-secluded Man,
...
Behold that shapeless Heap of stones and earth!
"Tis reverenced as a Vestige of the Abode
...
... —And when within his Cell
Alone he knelt before the crucifix,
By mountains high and waters widely spread,Ed.
Is that Seclusion which St. Herbert chose;
...
Hither he came in life's austere decline:
And, Stranger! this blank Heap of stones and earth
Is reverenced ...
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| Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and approached To closer fellowship with ideal grace. But take it in good part:—alas! the poor Vitruvius of our village had no help From the great City; never, upon leaves Of red Morocco folio saw displayed, In long succession, pre-existing ghosts Of Beauties yet unborn—the rustic Lodge Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced, Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove, Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage. Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind. And hither does one Poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts, Among the mountains) and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep, Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed He looks, through the open door-place, toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep— Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy! Note Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 |
| 1837 | |
... and approach'd |
1800 |
... alas! the poor |
1815 |
| 1837 | |
... on the leaves |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
... yet unborn, the rustic Box, |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
It is a homely pile, ... |
1800 |
| 1837 | |
He through that door-place looks ... |
1800 |
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| If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude; Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that simple object appertains A story—unenriched with strange events, Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved;—not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone. Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, He heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me!" And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air; hills, which with vigorous step He had so often climbed; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which, like a book, preserved the memory Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts The certainty of honourable gain; Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laid Strong hold on his affections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself. His days had not been passed in singleness. His Helpmate was a comely matron, old— Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life, Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest, It was because the other was at work. The Pair had but one inmate in their house, An only Child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old,—in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only Son, With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth, Made all their household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone, And from their occupations out of doors The Son and Father were come home, even then, Their labour did not cease; unless when all Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) And his old Father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, That in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection overbrowed Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn—and late, Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, Which, going by from year to year, had found, And left the couple neither gay perhaps Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry. And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sate, Father and Son, while far into the night The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. This light was famous in its neighbourhood, And was a public symbol of the life That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, And westward to the village near the lake; And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the House itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. Thus living on through such a length of years, The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart This son of his old age was yet more dear— Less from instinctive tenderness, the same Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all— Than that a child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature needs must fail. Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, Had done him female service, not alone For pastime and delight, as is the use Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, Albeit of a stern unbending mind, To have the Young-one in his sight, when he Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched Under the large old oak, that near his door Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was called The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. There, while they two were sitting in the shade, With others round them, earnest all and blithe, Would Michael exercise his heart with looks Of fond correction and reproof bestowed Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old; Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt He as a watchman oftentimes was placed At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; And, to his office prematurely called, There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hindrance and a help; And for this cause not always, I believe, Receiving from his Father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his Father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the Shepherd loved before Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came Feelings and emanations—things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind; And that the old Man's heart seemed born again? Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up: And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope. While in this sort the simple household lived From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound In surety for his brother's son, a man Of an industrious life, and ample means; But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly Had prest upon him; and old Michael now Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he supposed That any old man ever could have lost. As soon as he had armed himself with strength To look his trouble in the face, it seemed The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again, And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, "I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave. Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself Has scarcely been more diligent than I; And I have lived to be a fool at last To my own family. An evil man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false, There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. "When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; He shall possess it, free as is the wind That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, Another kinsman—he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man, Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go, And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift He quickly will repair this loss, and then He may return to us. If here he stay, What can be done? Where every one is poor, What can be gained?" At this the old Man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times. There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, He was a parish-boy—at the church-door They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares; And, with this basket on his arm, the lad Went up to London, found a master there, Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy To go and overlook his merchandise Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich, And left estates and monies to the poor, And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. These thoughts, and many others of like sort, Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, And thus resumed:—"Well, Isabel! this scheme These two days, has been meat and drink to me. Far more than we have lost is left us yet. —We have enough—I wish indeed that I Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope. Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best Buy for him more, and let us send him forth To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: —If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. The Housewife for five days Was restless morn and night, and all day long Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare Things needful for the journey of her son. But Isabel was glad when Sunday came To stop her in her work: for, when she lay By Michael's side, she through the last two nights Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep: And when they rose at morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go: We have no other Child but thee to lose, None to remember—do not go away, For if thou leave thy Father he will die." The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire. With daylight Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house appeared As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length The expected letter from their kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; To which, requests were added, that forthwith He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neighbours round; Nor was there at that time on English land A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old Man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The Housewife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such short notice he should go, Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, And thus the old Man spake to him:—"My Son, To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should touch On things thou canst not know of.—After thou First cam'st into the world—as oft befals To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side First uttering, without words, a natural tune; While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, And in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains; else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, As well thou knowest, in us the old and young Have played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, And said, "Nay, do not take it so—I see That these are things of which I need not speak. —Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good Father: and herein I but repay a gift which I myself Received at others' hands; for, though now old Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together: here they lived, As all their Forefathers had done; and when At length their time was come, they were not loth To give their bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived: But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, And see so little gain from threescore years. These fields were burthened when they came to me; Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. —It looks as if it never could endure Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou should'st go," At this the old Man paused; Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: "This was a work for us; and now, my Son, It is a work for me. But, lay one stone— Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. Nay, Boy, be of good hope;—we both may live To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part; I will do mine.—I will begin again With many tasks that were resigned to thee: Up to the heights, and in among the storms, Will I without thee go again, and do All works which I was wont to do alone, Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy! Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast With many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes— I knew that thou could'st never have a wish To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me Only by links of love: when thou art gone, What will be left to us!—But, I forget My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, When thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well— When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here: a covenant 'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate Befal thee, I shall love thee to the last, And bear thy memory with me to the grave." The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, And, as his Father had requested, laid The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart He pressed his Son, he kissèd him and wept; And to the house together they returned. —Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, Ere the night fell:—with morrow's dawn the Boy Began his journey, and when he had reached The public way, he put on a bold face; And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, That followed him till he was out of sight. A good report did from their Kinsman come, Of Luke and his well doing: and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout "The prettiest letters that were ever seen." Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on: and once again The Shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour He to that valley took his way, and there Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and, at length, He in the dissolute city gave himself To evil courses: ignominy and shame Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart: I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the old Man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, And listened to the wind; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, And for the land, his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the Fold of which His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet The pity which was then in every heart For the old Man—and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went, And never lifted up a single stone. There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. The length of full seven years, from time to time, He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel Survive her Husband: at her death the estate Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. The Cottage which was named the Evening Star Is gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought In all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is left That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. Note Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 / 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 |
B C D E F G |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 225 230 235 240 245 250 255 260 265 270 275 280 285 290 295 300 305 310 315 320 325 330 335 340 345 350 355 360 365 370 375 380 385 390 395 400 405 410 415 420 425 430 435 440 445 450 455 460 465 470 475 480 485 |
| 1827 | |
... beside ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
No habitation there is seen; but such |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
There is ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
And to that place a story appertains, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... It was the first, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... he had learn'd ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... the hills, which he so oft |
1800 |
| 1832 | |
... linking to such acts, |
1800 |
... gain ... |
1805 |
| 1815 | |
He had not passed his days in singleness. |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... their ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... their ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... their ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
Which ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Did with a huge projection overbrow |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... was in his ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... while late ... |
1800 |
Not with a waste of words, but for the sake |
| 1815 | |
The ... |
1800 |
| 1832 | |
The ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... yet more dear— |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all, |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
Or ... |
1800 |
| This line was first printed in the edition of 1836. |
From such, and other causes, to the thoughts |
Only in the editions of 1800 to 1820. |
| 1827 | |
For dalliance ... |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... when he |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
While this good household thus were living on |
1800 |
While in the fashion which I have described |
1800 (2nd issue). |
| 1836 | |
As soon as he had gather'd so much strength |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... itself |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
May come again to us ... |
1800 |
| Italics were first used in 1827. |
| 1836 | |
... for the two last nights |
1800 |
... through the |
1815 |
| 1815 | |
The Lad ... |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
Next morning ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... which close to the brook side |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... should speak |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... as it befalls |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
When ... |
1800 |
| 1815 | |
... in ... |
1800 |
| 1827 | |
... from sixty years. |
1800 |
I for the purpose brought thee to this place. |
| 1827 | |
... stout; ... |
1800 |
| 1802 | |
... should evil men |
1800 |
| This line was added in the edition of 1815. |
| 1815 | |
Next morning, as had been resolv'd, the Boy |
1800 |
| 1820 | |
Would break the heart:—Old Michael found it so. |
1800 |
| 1836 | |
... look'd up upon the sun, |
1800 |
... towards the sun, |
1832 |
| 1836 | |
Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, |
1800 |
"on the blank page facing the announcement, written in Wordsworth's handwriting, the following lines: 'Ed.Though it be in th' humblest rank of life,
And in the lowest region of our speech,
Yet is it in that kind as best accords
With rural passion.'"
'Though in their occupations they would passEd.
Whole hours with but small interchange of speech,
Yet were there times in which they did not want
Discourse both wise and prudent, shrewd remarks
Of daily providence, clothed in images
Lively and beautiful, in rural forms
That made their conversation fresh and fair
As is a landscape;—And the shepherd oft
Would draw out of his heart the obscurities
And admirations that were there, of God
And of His works, or, yielding to the bent
Of his peculiar humour, would let loose
The tongue and give it the wind's freedom,—then
Discoursing on remote imaginations, story,
Conceits, devices, day-dreams, thoughts and schemes,
The fancies of a solitary man.'
"Hugil, a chapelry six and a quarter miles from Kendal. The chapel, rebuilt in 1743 by Robert Bateman, stands in the village of Ings, which is in this chapelry. The free school was endowed with land in 1650 by Roland Wilson, producing at present £12 per annum. The average number of boys is twenty-five. This endowment was augmented by £8 per annum by Robert Bateman, who gave £1000 for purchasing an estate, and erected eight alms-houses for as many poor families, besides a donation of £12 per annum to the curate. This worthy benefactor was born here, and from a state of indigence succeeded in amassing considerable wealth by mercantile pursuits. He is stated to have been poisoned, in the straits of Gibraltar, on his voyage from Leghorn, with a valuable cargo, by the captain of the vessel,"(See The Topographical Dictionary of England, by Samuel Lewis, vol. ii. p. 1831.)—Ed.
'had learned the meaning of all winds,and where he
Of blasts of every tone,'
'had been alone,By so doing he will be better able to realize the spirit of the poem, than by trying to identify the site either of the "unfinished sheep-fold," or of the house named the "Evening Star." What Wordsworth said to the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge in reference to The Brothers has been quoted in the note to that poem, p. 203. On the same occasion he remarked, in reference to Michael:—
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
That came to him, and left him, on the heights.'
"Michael was founded on the son of an old couple having become dissolute, and run away from his parents; and on an old shepherd having been seven years in building up a sheep-fold in a solitary valley."(Memoirs of Wordsworth, by the late Bishop of Lincoln, vol. ii. p. 305.)
Oct. 11 [1800.] "We walked up Green-head ghyll in search of a sheepfold.... The sheepfold is falling away. It is built nearly in the form of a heart unequally divided."It is impossible to say with certainty that the entry under Dec. 9 refers to Michael, but if it does, it is evident that Wordsworth wrought continuously at this poem for nearly two months.
13. "William composing in the evening."
15. "W. composed a little." ... "W. again composed at the sheepfold after dinner."
18. "W. worked all the morning at the sheepfold, but in vain. He lay down till 7 o'clock, but did not sleep."
19. "William got to work."
20. "W. worked in the morning at the sheepfold."
21. "W. had been unsuccessful in the morning at the sheepfold."
22. "W. composed, without much success, at the sheepfold."
23. "W. was not successful in composition in the evening."
24. "W. was only partly successful in composition."
26. "W. composed a good deal all the morning."
28. "W. could not compose much; fatigued himself with altering."
30. "W. worked at his poem all the morning."
Nov. 10. "W. at the sheepfold."
12. "W. has been working at the sheepfold."
Dec. 9. "W. finished his poem to-day."
"In writing it" (Michael), "I had your character often before my eyes; and sometimes thought that I was delineating such a man as you yourself would have been, under the same circumstances."The following is part of a letter written by Wordsworth to Charles James Fox in 1802, and sent with a copy of "Lyrical Ballads":
"In the two poems, The Brothers and Michael, I have attempted to draw a picture of the domestic affections, as I know they exist amongst a class of men who are now almost confined to the north of England. They are small independent proprietors of land, here called 'statesmen,' men of respectable education, who daily labour on their own little properties. The domestic affections will always be strong amongst men who live in a country not crowded with population; if these men are placed above poverty. But, if they are proprietors of small estates which have descended to them from their ancestors, the power which these affections will acquire amongst such men, is inconceivable by those who have only had an opportunity of observing hired labourers, farmers, and the manufacturing poor. Their little tract of land serves as a kind of permanent rallying point for their domestic feelings, as a tablet on which they are written, which makes them objects of memory in a thousand instances, when they would otherwise be forgotten. It is a fountain fitted to the nature of social man, from which supplies of affection as pure as his heart was intended for, are daily drawn. This class of men is rapidly disappearing.... The two poems that I have mentioned were written with a view to show that men who do not wear fine clothes can feel deeply. Pectus enim est quod disertos facit, et vis mentis. Ideoque imperitis quoque, si modo sint aliquo affectu concitati, verba non desunt. The poems are faithful copies from nature; and I hope whatever effect they may have upon you, you will at least be able to perceive that they may excite profitable sympathies in many kind and good hearts; and may in some small degree enlarge our feelings of reverence for our species, and our knowledge of human nature, by showing that our best qualities are possessed by men whom we are too apt to consider, not with reference to the points in which they resemble us, but to those in which they manifestly differ from us."A number of fragments, originally meant to be parts of Michael,—or at least written with such a possibility in view,— will be found in the Appendix to the eighth volume of this edition.—Ed.
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents
| 1800 | ← | end of Volume II: Poems on the Naming of Places | → | 1801 |
| Main Contents |
"Dec. 21.—Wm. sate beside me, and wrote The Pedlar.Ed.
22nd.—W. composed a few lines of The Pedlar.
23rd.— William worked at The Ruined Cottage" (this was the name of the first part of 'The Excursion', in which The Pedlar was included), "and made himself very ill," etc.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Behold, within the leafy shade, Those bright blue eggs together laid! On me the chance-discovered sight Gleamed like a vision of delight. I started—seeming to espy The home and sheltered bed, The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by My Father's house, in wet or dry My sister Emmeline and I Together visited. She looked at it and seemed to fear it; Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it: Such heart was in her, being then A little Prattler among men. The Blessing of my later years Was with me when a boy: She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love, and thought, and joy. Note Contents 1801 Main Contents |
1 2 |
5 10 15 20 |
| 1815 | |
Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there! |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
She look'd at it as if she fear'd it; |
1807 |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled: His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold; And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide Into two ample horns his forehead wide," Shines with poetic radiance as of old; While not an English Mountain we behold By the celestial Muses glorified. Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds: What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds His double front among Atlantic clouds, And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly. Contents 1801 Main Contents |
1 2 3 |
A |
5 10 |
| 1815 | |
illustrious ... |
MS. |
| 1834 | |
fairer ... |
1815 |
| 1827 | |
His double-fronted head in higher clouds, |
1815 |
... among Atlantic clouds, |
MS. |
'Or where on Mount Parnasse, the Muses brood.Ed.
Doth his broad forehead like two horns divide,
And the sweet waves of sounding Castaly
With liquid foot doth glide down easily.'
"I am glad that you enter so warmly into the Chaucerian project, and that Mr. L. Hunt is disposed to give his valuable aid to it. For myself, I cannot do more than I offered, to place at your disposal The Prioress' Tale already published, The Cuckoo and the Nightingale, The Manciple's Tale, and I rather think (but I cannot just now find it) a small portion of the Troilus and Cressida. You ask my opinion about that poem. Speaking from a recollection only, of many years past, I should say it would be found too long and probably tedious. The Knight's Tale is also very long; but, though Dryden has executed it, in his own way observe, with great spirit and harmony, he has suffered so much of the simplicity, and with that of the beauty and occasional pathos of the original to escape, that I should be pleased to hear that a new version was to be attempted upon my principle by some competent person. It would delight me to read every part of Chaucer over again—for I reverence and admire him above measure—with a view to your work; but my eyes will not permit me to do so. Who will undertake the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales? For your publication that is indispensable, and I fear it will prove very difficult. It is written, as you know, in the couplet measure; and therefore I have nothing to say upon its metre, but in respect to the poems in stanza, neither in The Prioress' Tale nor in The Cuckoo and Nightingale have I kept to the rule of the original as to the form, and number, and position of the rhymes; thinking it enough if I kept the same number of lines in each stanza; and this is, I think, all that is necessary, and all that can be done without sacrificing the substance of sense too often to the mere form of sound."In a subsequent letter to Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia, dated "Rydal Mount, January 13th, 1841," Wordsworth said:
"So great is my admiration of Chaucer's genius, and so profound my reverence for him as an instrument in the hands of Providence, for spreading the light of literature through his native land, that notwithstanding the defects and faults in this publication" (referring, I presume, to the volume, The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised), "I am glad of it, as a means of making many acquainted with the original, who would otherwise be ignorant of everything about him but his name."Ed.
"Call up him who left half toldIn the following Piece I have allowed myself no farther deviations from the original than were necessary for the fluent reading, and instant understanding, of the Author: so much however is the language altered since Chaucer's time, especially in pronunciation, that much was to be removed, and its place supplied with as little incongruity as possible. The ancient accent has been retained in a few conjunctions, such as also and alway, from a conviction that such sprinklings of antiquity would be admitted, by persons of taste, to have a graceful accordance with the subject.—W. W. (1820).
The story of Cambuscan bold."B
| stanza | text | variant | footnote | line number |
| I | "O Lord, our Lord! how wondrously," (quoth she) "Thy name in this large world is spread abroad! For not alone by men of dignity Thy worship is performed and precious laud; But by the mouths of children, gracious God! Thy goodness is set forth; they when they lie Upon the breast thy name do glorify. |
5 |
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| II | "Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that I may, Jesu! of thee, and the white Lily-flower Which did thee bear, and is a Maid for aye, To tell a story I will use my power; Not that I may increase her honour's dower, For she herself is honour, and the root Of goodness, next her Son, our soul's best boot. |
10 |
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| III | "O Mother Maid! O Maid and Mother free! O bush unburnt! burning in Moses' sight! That down didst ravish from the Deity, Through humbleness, the spirit that did alight Upon thy heart, whence, through that glory's might, Conceived was the Father's sapience, Help me to tell it in thy reverence! |
15 20 |
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| IV | "Lady! thy goodness, thy magnificence, Thy virtue, and thy great humility, Surpass all science and all utterance; For sometimes, Lady! ere men pray to thee Thou goest before in thy benignity, The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer, To be our guide unto thy Son so dear. |
25 |
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| V | "My knowledge is so weak, O blissful Queen! To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness, That I the weight of it may not sustain; But as a child of twelvemonths old or less, That laboureth his language to express, Even so fare I; and therefore, I thee pray, Guide thou my song which I of thee shall say. |
30 35 |
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| VI | "There was in Asia, in a mighty town, 'Mong Christian folk, a street where Jews might be, Assigned to them and given them for their own By a great Lord, for gain and usury, Hateful to Christ and to his company; And through this street who list might ride and wend; Free was it, and unbarred at either end. |
40 |
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| VII | "A little school of Christian people stood Down at the farther end, in which there were A nest of children come of Christian blood, That learnèd in that school from year to year Such sort of doctrine as men used there, That is to say, to sing and read also, As little children in their childhood do. |
45 |
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| VIII | "Among these children was a Widow's son, A little scholar, scarcely seven years old, Who day by day unto this school hath gone, And eke, when he the image did behold Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told, This Child was wont to kneel adown and say Ave Marie, as he goeth by the way. |
C |
50 55 |
|
| IX | "This Widow thus her little Son hath taught Our blissful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear, To worship aye, and he forgat it not; For simple infant hath a ready ear. Sweet is the holiness of youth: and hence, Calling to mind this matter when I may, Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye, For he so young to Christ did reverence. |
D |
60 |
|
| X | "This little Child, while in the school he sate His Primer conning with an earnest cheer, The whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat The Alma Redemptoris did he hear; And as he durst he drew him near and near, And hearkened to the words and to the note, Till the first verse he learned it all by rote. |
E |
65 70 |
|
| XI | "This Latin knew he nothing what it said, For he too tender was of age to know; But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed That he the meaning of this song would show, And unto him declare why men sing so; This oftentimes, that he might be at ease, This child did him beseech on his bare knees. |
75 |
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| XII | "His Schoolfellow, who elder was than he, Answered him thus:—'This song, I have heard say, Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free; Her to salute, and also her to pray To be our help upon our dying day: If there is more in this, I know it not: Song do I learn,—small grammar I have got.' |
80 85 |
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| XIII | "'And is this song fashioned in reverence Of Jesu's Mother?' said this Innocent; 'Now, certès, I will use my diligence To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent; Although I for my Primer shall be shent, And shall be beaten three times in an hour, Our Lady I will praise with all my power.' |
90 |
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| XIV | "His Schoolfellow, whom he had so besought, As they went homeward taught him privily And then he sang it well and fearlessly, From word to word according to the note: Twice in a day it passèd through his throat; Homeward and schoolward whensoe'er he went, On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent. |
95 |
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| XV | "Through all the Jewry (this before said I) This little Child, as he came to and fro, Full merrily then would he sing and cry, O Alma Redemptoris! high and low: The sweetness of Christ's Mother piercèd so His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray, He cannot stop his singing by the way. |
100 105 |
||
| XVI | "The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled—'O woe, O Hebrew people!' said he in his wrath, 'Is it an honest thing? Shall this be so? That such a Boy where'er he lists shall go In your despite, and sing his hymns and saws, Which is against the reverence of our laws!' |
1 |
110 |
|
| XVII | "From that day forward have the Jews conspired Out of the world this Innocent to chase; And to this end a Homicide they hired, That in an alley had a privy place, And, as the Child 'gan to the school to pace, This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast. |
115 120 |
||
| XVIII | "I say that him into a pit they threw, A loathsome pit, whence noisome scents exhale; O cursèd folk! away, ye Herods new! What may your ill intentions you avail? Murder will out; certès it will not fail; Know, that the honour of high God may spread, The blood cries out on your accursèd deed. |
125 |
||
| XIX | "O Martyr 'stablished in virginity! Now may'st thou sing for aye before the throne, Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she, "Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John, In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go Before the Lamb singing continually, That never fleshly woman they did know. |
130 |
||
| XX | "Now this poor widow waiteth all that night After her little Child, and he came not; For which, by earliest glimpse of morning light, With face all pale with dread and busy thought, She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought, Until thus far she learned, that he had been In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen. |
135 140 |
||
| XXI | "With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed She goeth, as she were half out of her mind, To every place wherein she hath supposed By likelihood her little Son to find; And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought, And him among the accursèd Jews she sought. |
145 |
||
| XXII | "She asketh, and she piteously doth pray To every Jew that dwelleth in that place To tell her if her child had passed that way; They all said—Nay; but Jesu of his grace Gave to her thought, that in a little space She for her Son in that same spot did cry Where he was cast into a pit hard by. |
150 155 |
||
| XXIII | "O thou great God that dost perform thy laud By mouths of Innocents, lo! here thy might; This gem of chastity, this emerald, And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright, There, where with mangled throat he lay upright, The Alma Redemptoris 'gan to sing So loud, that with his voice the place did ring. |
160 |
||
| XXIV | "The Christian folk that through the Jewry went Come to the spot in wonder at the thing; And hastily they for the Provost sent; Immediately he came, not tarrying, And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly King, And eke his Mother, honour of Mankind: Which done, he bade that they the Jews should bind. |
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| XXV | "This Child with piteous lamentation then Was taken up, singing his song alwày; And with procession great and pomp of men To the next Abbey him they bare away; His Mother swooning by the body lay: And scarcely could the people that were near Remove this second Rachel from the bier. |
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| XXVI | "Torment and shameful death to every one This Provost doth for those bad Jews prepare That of this murder wist, and that anon: Such wickedness his judgments cannot spare; Who will do evil, evil shall he bear; Them therefore with wild horses did he draw, And after that he hung them by the law. |
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| XXVII | "Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie Before the altar while the Mass doth last: The Abbot with his convent's company Then sped themselves to bury him full fast; And, when they holy water on him cast, Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was the water; And sang, O Alma Redemptoris Mater! |
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| XXVIII | "This Abbot, for he was a holy man, As all Monks are, or surely ought to be, In supplication to the Child began Thus saying, 'O dear Child! I summon thee In virtue of the holy Trinity Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this hymn, Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth seem.' |
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| XXIX | "'My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,' Said this young Child, 'and by the law of kind I should have died, yea many hours ago; But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find, Will that his glory last, and be in mind; And, for the worship of his Mother dear, Yet may I sing, O Alma! loud and clear. |
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| XXX | "'This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet, After my knowledge I have loved alwày; And in the hour when I my death did meet To me she came, and thus to me did say, "Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay," As ye have heard; and soon as I had sung Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue. |
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| XXXI | "'Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain, In honour of that blissful Maiden free, Till from my tongue off-taken is the grain; And after that thus said she unto me; "My little Child, then will I come for thee Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they take: Be not dismayed, I will not thee forsake!"' |
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| XXXII | "This holy Monk, this Abbot—him mean I, Touched then his tongue, and took away the grain; And he gave up the ghost full peacefully; And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen, His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain; And on his face he dropped upon the ground, And still he lay as if he had been bound. |
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| XXXIII | "Eke the whole Convent on the pavement lay, Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear; And after that they rose, and took their way, And lifted up this Martyr from the bier, And in a tomb of precious marble clear Enclosed his uncorrupted body sweet.— Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet! |
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| XXXIV | "Young Hew of Lincoln! in like sort laid low By cursèd Jews—thing well and widely known, For it was done a little while ago— Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye, In mercy would his mercy multiply On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary!" Contents 1801 Main Contents |
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| 1827 | |
... list ... |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
... by the Bier ... |
1820 |
| 1827 | |
This Abbot who had been a holy man And was, as all Monks are, or ought to be,a |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
For not long since was dealt the cruel blow, |
1820 |
"Friday, 4th December 1801.... William translating The Prioress' Tale."(Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal).—Ed.
"Saturday, 5th. William finished The Prioress' Tale, and after tea, Mary and he wrote it out"
"Chaucer's text is:(Professor Edward Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.'Thus hath this widow her litel child i-taught'For sely child wil alway soone leere,' i.e. for a happy child will always learn soon. Wordsworth renders:
Our blissful lady, Criste's moder deere,
To worschip ay, and he forgat it nought;
For sely child wil alway soone leere.''For simple infant hath a ready ear,'and adds:'Sweet is the holiness of youth,'extending the stanza to receive this addition from seven to eight lines, with an altered rhyme-system."
'This litel child his litel book lernyngeEd.
As he sat in the schole in his primere.'
'And in a tombe of marble stoones clereEd.
Enclosed they this litel body swete.'
| stanza | text | variant | footnote | line number |
| I | The God of Love—ah, benedicite! How mighty and how great a Lord is he! For he of low hearts can make high, of high He can make low, and unto death bring nigh; And hard hearts he can make them kind and free. |
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| II | Within a little time, as hath been found, He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound: Them who are whole in body and in mind, He can make sick,—bind can he and unbind All that he will have bound, or have unbound. |
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| III | To tell his might my wit may not suffice; Foolish men he can make them out of wise;— For he may do all that he will devise; Loose livers he can make abate their vice, And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. |
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| IV | In brief, the whole of what he will, he may; Against him dare not any wight say nay; To humble or afflict whome'er he will, To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill; But most his might he sheds on the eve of May. |
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| V | For every true heart, gentle heart and free, That with him is, or thinketh so to be, Now against May shall have some stirring—whether To joy, or be it to some mourning; never At other time, methinks, in like degree. |
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| VI | For now when they may hear the small birds' song, And see the budding leaves the branches throng, This unto their remembrance doth bring All kinds of pleasure mix'd with sorrowing; And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. |
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| VII | And of that longing heaviness doth come, Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home; Sick are they all for lack of their desire; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. |
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| VIII | In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow; Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,— How hard, alas! to bear, I only know. |
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| IX | Such shaking doth the fever in me keep Through all this May that I have little sleep; And also 'tis not likely unto me, That any living heart should sleepy be In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep. |
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| X | But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, I of a token thought which Lovers heed; How among them it was a common tale, That it was good to hear the Nightingale, Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be utterèd. |
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| XI | And then I thought anon as it was day, I gladly would go somewhere to essay If I perchance a Nightingale might hear, For yet had I heard none, of all that year, And it was then the third night of the May. |
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| XII | And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, No longer would I in my bed abide, But straightway to a wood that was hard by, Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, And held the pathway down by a brook-side; |
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| XIII | Till to a lawn I came all white and green, I in so fair a one had never been. The ground was green, with daisy powdered over; Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white; and nothing else was seen. |
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| XIV | There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers, And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers, Where they had rested them all night; and they, Who were so joyful at the light of day, Began to honour May with all their powers. |
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| XV | Well did they know that service all by rote, And there was many and many a lovely note, Some, singing loud, as if they had complained; Some with their notes another manner feigned; And some did sing all out with the full throat. |
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| XVI | They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay, Dancing and leaping light upon the spray; And ever two and two together were, The same as they had chosen for the year, Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. |
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| XVII | Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon, Was making such a noise as it ran on Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony; Methought that it was the best melody Which ever to man's ear a passage won. |
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| XVIII | And for delight, but how I never wot, I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly; And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. |
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| XIX | And that was right upon a tree fast by, And who was then ill satisfied but I? Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood, From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good, Full little joy have I now of thy cry. |
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| XX | And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, In the next bush that was me fast beside, I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, That her clear voice made a loud rioting, Echoing through all the green wood wide. |
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| XXI | Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's cheer, Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long; For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here, And she hath been before thee with her song; Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong. |
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| XXII | But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray; As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, Methought I wist right well what these birds meant, And had good knowing both of their intent, And of their speech, and all that they would say. |
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| XXIII | The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:— Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here; For every wight eschews thy song to hear, Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. |
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| XXIV | What! quoth she then, what is't that ails thee now? It seems to me I sing as well as thou; For mine's a song that is both true and plain,— Although I cannot quaver so in vain As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. |
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| XXV | All men may understanding have of me, But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:— Thou say'st, Osee, Osee, then how may I Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be? |
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| XXVI | Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is? Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis, Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain That shamefully they one and all were slain, Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. |
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| XXVII | And also would I that they all were dead, Who do not think in love their life to lead; For who is both the God of Love to obey, Is only fit to die, I dare well say, And for that cause Osee I cry; take heed! |
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| XXVIII | Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law, That all must love or die; but I withdraw, And take my leave of all such company, For mine intent it neither is to die, Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. |
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| XXIX | For lovers of all folk that be alive, The most disquiet have and least do thrive; Most feeling have of sorrow woe and care, And the least welfare cometh to their share; What need is there against the truth to strive? |
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| XXX | What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, That in thy churlishness a cause canst find To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood; For in this world no service is so good To every wight that gentle is of kind. |
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| XXXI | For thereof comes all goodness and all worth; All gentiless and honour thence come forth; Thence worship comes, content and true heart's pleasure, And full-assured trust, joy without measure, And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth; |
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| XXXII | And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, And seemliness, and faithful company, And dread of shame that will not do amiss; For he that faithfully Love's servant is, Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die. |
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| XXXIII | And that the very truth it is which I Now say—in such belief I'll live and die; And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, If with that counsel I do e'er comply. |
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| XXXIV | Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair, Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere; For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis; And Love in old folk a great dotage is; Who most it useth, him 'twill most impair. |
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| XXXV | For thereof come all contraries to gladness; Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, Dishonour, shame, envy importunate, Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness. |
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| XXXVI | Loving is aye an office of despair, And one thing is therein which is not fair; For whoso gets of love a little bliss, Unless it alway stay with him, I wis He may full soon go with an old man's hair. |
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| XXXVII | And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh, For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are; Then shall thou raise a clamour as do I. |
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| XXXVIII | Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen! The God of Love afflict thee with all teen, For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold; For many a one hath virtues manifold, Who had been nought, if Love had never been. |
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| XXXIX | For evermore his servants Love amendeth, And he from every blemish them defendeth; And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, In loyalty, and worshipful desire, And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth. |
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| XL | Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still, For Love no reason hath but his own will;— For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy; True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, He lets them perish through that grievous ill. |
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| XLI | With such a master would I never be; For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, And knows not when he hurts and when he heals; Within this court full seldom Truth avails, So diverse in his wilfulness is he. |
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| XLII | Then of the Nightingale did I take note, How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought, And said, Alas! that ever I was born, Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,— And with that word, she into tears burst out. |
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| XLIII | Alas, alas! my very heart will break, Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak Of Love, and of his holy services; Now, God of Love! thou help me in some wise, That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. |
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| XLIV | And so methought I started up anon, And to the brook I ran and got a stone, Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast, And he for dread did fly away full fast; And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. |
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| XLV | And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye, Kept crying, "Farewell!—farewell, Popinjay!" As if in scornful mockery of me; And on I hunted him from tree to tree, Till he was far, all out of sight, away. |
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| XLVI | Then straightway came the Nightingale to me, And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee, That thou wert near to rescue me; and now Unto the God of Love I make a vow, That all this May I will thy songstress be. |
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| XLVII | Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, By this mishap no longer be dismayed, Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me; Yet if I live it shall amended be, When next May comes, if I am not afraid. |
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| XLVIII | And one thing will I counsel thee also, The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw; All that she said is an outrageous lie. Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I, For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe. |
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| XLIX | Yea, hath it? use, quoth she, this medicine; This May-time, every day before thou dine, Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I, Although for pain thou may'st be like to die, Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine. |
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| L | And mind always that thou be good and true, And I will sing one song, of many new, For love of thee, as loud as I may cry; And then did she begin this song full high, "Beshrew all them that are in love untrue." |
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| LI | And soon as she had sung it to the end, Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend; And, God of Love, that can right well and may, Send unto thee as mickle joy this day, As ever he to Lover yet did send. |
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| LII | Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me; I pray to God with her always to be, And joy of love to send her evermore; And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, For there is not so false a bird as she. |
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| LIII | Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, To all the Birds that lodged within that dale, And gathered each and all into one place; And them besought to hear her doleful case, And thus it was that she began her tale. |
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| LIV | The Cuckoo—'tis not well that I should hide How she and I did each the other chide, And without ceasing, since it was daylight; And now I pray you all to do me right Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide. |
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| LV | Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave; This matter asketh counsel good as grave, For birds we are—all here together brought; And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not; And therefore we a Parliament will have. |
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| LVI | And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, And other Peers whose names are on record; A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, And judgment there be given; or that intent Failing, we finally shall make accord. |
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| LVII | And all this shall be done, without a nay, The morrow after Saint Valentine's day, Under a maple that is well beseen, Before the chamber-window of the Queen, At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay. |
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| LVIII | She thankèd them; and then her leave she took, And flew into a hawthorn by that brook; And there she sate and sung—upon that tree— "For term of life Love shall have hold of me"— So loudly, that I with that song awoke. |
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| Unlearnèd Book and rude, as well I know, For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, Who did on thee the hardiness bestow To appear before my Lady? but a sense Thou surely hast of her benevolence, Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give; For of all good she is the best alive. |
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| Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness, To show to her some pleasant meanings writ In winning words, since through her gentiless, Thee she accepts as for her service fit! Oh! it repents me I have neither wit Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give; For of all good she is the best alive. |
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| Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, Though I be far from her I reverence, To think upon my truth and stedfastness, And to abridge my sorrow's violence, Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, She of her liking proof to me would give; For of all good she is the best alive. |
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| L'Envoy | Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness! Luna by night, with heavenly influence Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse, Write, and allay, by your beneficence, My sighs breathed forth in silence,—comfort give! Since of all good, you are the best alive. Explicet Contents 1801 Main Contents |
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The God of Love—ah, benedicite! |
W. W., Nov. 27, 1819. |
| 1842 | |
... have heard ... |
1841 |
| 1842 | |
... sorrow's ... |
1841 |
| 1842 | |
... gentleness ... |
1841 |
| 1842 | |
... gentleness, ... |
1841 |
"Sunday, 6th December 1801. A very fine beautiful sun-shiny morning. William worked a while at Chaucer; then he set forward to walk into Easdale.... In the afternoon I read Chaucer aloud."The question as to whether The Cuckoo and the Nightingale was written by Chaucer or not, may be solved either way without affecting the literary value of Wordsworth's "modernisation" of it.—Ed.
"Monday, 7th.... William at work with Chaucer, The God of Love...."
"8th November ... William worked at The Cuckoo and the Nightingale till he was tired."
"Wednesday, December 9th. I read Palemon and Arcite, William writing out his alterations of Chaucer's Cuckoo and Nightingale."
"In The Cuckoo and Nightingale, a poem of the third of May—a date corresponding to the mid-May, the very heart of May according to our modern reckoning—the poet after a wakeful night rises, and goes forth at dawn, and comes to a 'laund' or plain 'of white and green.'(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society. No. III.)—Ed.'So feire oon had I nevere in bene,Nothing seen but the short green grass and the white daisies,—grass and daisies being of equal height. Unfortunately in Tyrwhitt's text the description is nonsensical,
The grounde was grene, y poudred with daysé,
The floures and the gras ilike al hie,
Al grene and white, was nothing elles sene.''The flowres and the greves like hie.'The daisy flowers are as high as the groves! Wordsworth retained the groves, but refused to make daisies of equal height with them.'Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white; and nothing else was seen.'"
"In Chaucer's poem, after 'the cuckoo, bird unholy,' has said his evil say, the Nightingale breaks forth 'so lustily,'(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.'That with her clere voys she made ryngeWordsworth has taken a poet's licence with these lines:
Thro out alle the grene wode wide,''I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,This 'loud rioting' is Wordsworth's, not Chaucer's; and it belongs, as it were, to that other passage of his:
That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
Echoing through all the green wood wide.''O Nightingale, thou surely art
A creature of a fiery heart,
These notes of thine—they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
Had helped thee to a Valentine.'"
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Next morning Troilus began to clear His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, For love of God, full piteously did say, We must the Palace see of Cresida; For since we yet may have no other feast, Let us behold her Palace at the least! And therewithal to cover his intent A cause he found into the Town to go, And they right forth to Cresid's Palace went; But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe, Him thought his sorrowful heart would break in two; For when he saw her doors fast bolted all, Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall. Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold, How shut was every window of the place, Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold; For which, with changèd, pale, and deadly face, Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace; And on his purpose bent so fast to ride, That no wight his continuance espied. Then said he thus,—O Palace desolate! O house of houses, once so richly dight! O Palace empty and disconsolate! Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light; O Palace whilom day that now art night, Thou ought'st to fall and I to die; since she Is gone who held us both in sovereignty. O, of all houses once the crownèd boast! Palace illumined with the sun of bliss; O ring of which the ruby now is lost, O cause of woe, that cause has been of bliss: Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout; Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out! Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, With changed face, and piteous to behold; And when he might his time aright espy, Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, So piteously, and with so dead a hue, That every wight might on his sorrow rue. Forth from the spot he rideth up and down, And everything to his rememberance Came as he rode by places of the town Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once. Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance, And in that Temple she with her bright eyes, My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise. And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I Heard my own Cresid's laugh; and once at play I yonder saw her eke full blissfully; And yonder once she unto me 'gan say— Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray! And there so graciously did me behold, That hers unto the death my heart I hold. And at the corner of that self-same house Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, So womanly, with voice melodious Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, That in my soul methinks I yet do hear The blissful sound; and in that very place My Lady first me took unto her grace. O blissful God of Love! then thus he cried, When I the process have in memory, How thou hast wearied me on every side, Men thence a book might make, a history; What need to seek a conquest over me, Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy? Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief; Now mercy, Lord! thou know'st well I desire Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief; And live and die I will in thy belief; For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, That Cresida again thou send me soon. Constrain her heart as quickly to return, As thou dost mine with longing her to see, Then know I well that she would not sojourn. Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, As Juno was unto the Theban blood, From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude. And after this he to the gate did go Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was; And up and down there went, and to and fro, And to himself full oft he said, alas! From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass. O would the blissful God now for his joy, I might her see again coming to Troy! And up to yonder hill was I her guide; Alas, and there I took of her my leave; Yonder I saw her to her Father ride, For very grief of which my heart shall cleave;— And hither home I came when it was eve; And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy. And of himself did he imagine oft, That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft Men said, what may it be, can no one guess Why Troilus hath all this heaviness? All which he of himself conceited wholly Out of his weakness and his melancholy. Another time he took into his head, That every wight, who in the way passed by, Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said, I am right sorry Troilus will die: And thus a day or two drove wearily; As ye have heard; such life 'gan he to lead As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread. For which it pleased him in his songs to show The occasion of his woe, as best he might; And made a fitting song, of words but few, Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light; And when he was removed from all men's sight, With a soft night voice, he of his Lady dear, That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear. O star, of which I lost have all the light, With a sore heart well ought I to bewail, That ever dark in torment, night by night, Toward my death with wind I steer and sail; For which upon the tenth night if thou fail With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour, My ship and me Charybdis will devour. As soon as he this song had thus sung through, He fell again into his sorrows old; And every night, as was his wont to do, Troilus stood the bright moon to behold; And all his trouble to the moon he told, And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew, I shall be glad if all the world be true. Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow, When hence did journey my bright Lady dear, That cause is of my torment and my sorrow; For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear, For love of God, run fast above thy sphere; For when thy horns begin once more to spring, Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring. The day is more, and longer every night Than they were wont to be—for he thought so; And that the sun did take his course not right, By longer way than he was wont to go; And said, I am in constant dread I trow, That Phäeton his son is yet alive, His too fond father's car amiss to drive. Upon the walls fast also would he walk, To the end that he the Grecian host might see; And ever thus he to himself would talk:— Lo! yonder is my own bright Lady free; Or yonder is it that the tents must be; And thence does come this air which is so sweet, That in my soul I feel the joy of it. And certainly this wind, that more and more By moments thus increaseth in my face, Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore; I prove it thus; for in no other space Of all this town, save only in this place, Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain; It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain? A weary while in pain he tosseth thus, Till fully past and gone was the ninth night; And ever at his side stood Pandarus, Who busily made use of all his might To comfort him, and make his heart more light; Giving him always hope, that she the morrow Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow. Contents 1801 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 |
B C D E F |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 |
| 1842 | |
... burst |
1841 |
| 1842 | |
... hast ... |
1841 |
| 1842 | |
... his eye, |
1841 |
| 1842 | |
... whose words ... |
1841 |
| 1842 | |
With a soft voice, ... |
1841 |
| 1842 | |
... mine ... |
1841 |
| The "even" of 1841 is evidently a misprint. |
| 1842 | |
... too light; |
1841 |
"Chaucer's text is:(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.'And therwithalle his meynye for to blende'His meynye for to blende,' i. e. to keep his household or his domestics in the dark. But Wordsworth writes:
A cause he fonde in toune for to go.''And therewithal to cover his intent,'possibly mistaking 'meynye' for 'meaning'."
"When Troilus sees the shut windows and desolate aspect of his lady's house, his face grows blanched, and he rides past in haste, so fast, says Wordsworth,(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.'That no wight his continuance espied.'But in Chaucer he rides fast that his white face may not be noticed:'And as God wolde he gan so faste ride
That no wight of his countenance espied.'"
(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed."'Toward my death with wind I steer and sail.'This is Urry's version, but Chaucer's text is,'Toward my death, with wind in stern I sail,'Troilus' bark careering towards death, with all sails set, before a fierce stern-wind."
| Poems on the Naming of Places | ← | end of Volume II: 1801 | → | 1802 |
| Main Contents |
"Feb. 1, 1802.—William worked hard at The Pedlar, and tired himself.Similar records occur each day in the Journal from the 10th to the 14th Feb. 1802.—Ed.
2nd Feb.—Wm. worked at The Pedlar. I read aloud the 11th book of Paradise Lost.
Thursday, 4th.—William thought a little about The Pedlar.
5th.—Wm. sate up late at The Pedlar.
7th.—W. was working at his poem. Wm. read The Pedlar, thinking it was done. But lo! ... it was uninteresting, and must be altered."
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| One morning (raw it was and wet— A foggy day in winter time) A Woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, "What is it," said I, "that you bear, Beneath the covert of your Cloak, Protected from this cold damp air?" She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird." And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a Son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. "The bird and cage they both were his: 'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages The singing-bird had gone with him; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. "He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, And pipe its song in safety;—there I found it when my Son was dead; And now, God help me for my little wit! I bear [8] it with me, Sir;—he took so much delight in it." Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 |
| 1815 | |
... in ... |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
... I woke, |
1807 |
"What treasure," said I,"do you bear, |
1820 |
| 1807 | |
"I had a Son,—the waves might roar, |
1820 |
... cross the deep ... |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
And I have been as far as Hull, to see |
1807 |
And I have travelled far as Hull, to see |
1815 |
And I have travelled many miles to see |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
This Singing-bird hath gone ... |
1807 |
... had gone ... |
1820 |
| 1827 | |
As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind. |
1807 |
| 1827 | |
Till he came back again; and there |
1807 |
| 1827 | |
I trail ... |
1807 |
"Thursday (March 11th).—A fine morning. William worked at the poem of The Singing Bird. ..."(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.)—Ed.
"Friday (March 12th).—William finished his poem of The Singing Bird."
"Feb. 16, 1802.—Mr. Graham said he wished William had been with him the other day. He was riding in a post-chaise, and he heard a strange cry that he could not understand. The sound continued, and he called to the chaise-driver to stop. It was a little girl that was crying as if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it hung there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr. Graham took her into the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the child's misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags. It had been a miserable cloak before; but she had no other, and it was the greatest sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell. She had no parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town Mr. G. left money to buy her a new cloak."Ed.
"Friday (March 12).—In the evening after tea William wrote Alice Fell."
"Saturday Morning (13th March).—William finished Alice Fell...."
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound. As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound,—and more and more; It seemed to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before. At length I to the boy called out; He stopped his horses at the word, But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, Nor aught else like it, could be heard. The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The horses scampered through the rain; But, hearing soon upon the blast The cry, I bade him halt again. Forthwith alighting on the ground, "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" And there a little Girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. "My cloak!" no other word she spake, But loud and bitterly she wept, As if her innocent heart would break; And down from off her seat she leapt. "What ails you, child?"—she sobbed "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scare-crow dangled. There, twisted between nave and spoke, It hung, nor could at once be freed; But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, A miserable rag indeed! "And whither are you going, child, To-night along these lonesome ways?" "To Durham," answered she, half wild— "Then come with me into the chaise." Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief Could never, never have an end. "My child, in Durham do you dwell?" She checked herself in her distress, And said, "My name is Alice Fell; I'm fatherless and motherless. "And I to Durham, Sir, belong." Again, as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tattered cloak! The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, As if she had lost her only friend She wept, nor would be pacified. Up to the tavern-door we post; Of Alice and her grief I told; And I gave money to the host, To buy a new cloak for the old. "And let it be of duffil grey, As warm a cloak as man can sell!" Proud creature was she the next day, The little orphan, Alice Fell! Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1845 | |
When suddenly I seem'd to hear |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
And soon I heard upon the blast |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
Said I, alighting on the ground, |
1807 |
Forthwith alighted on the ground |
C. |
| 1836 | |
"My Cloak!" the word was last and first, |
1807 |
"My cloak, my cloak" she cried, and spake |
C. |
| 1815 | |
... off the Chaise ... |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke; |
1807 |
... between ... |
1840 |
| 1836 | |
A wretched, wretched rag indeed! |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
She sate like one past all relief; |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
And then, ... |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
... she'd lost ... |
1807 |
"I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their malice; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls."See Letters of Charles Lamb (Ainger), vol. i. p. 283.—Ed.
"his poems are sometimes little more than poetical versions of her descriptions of the objects which she had seen, and he treated them as seen by himself."(See Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. pp. 180-1.)
"Saturday (March 13, 1802).—William wrote the poem of the Beggar Woman, taken from a woman whom I had seen in May (now nearly two years ago), when John and he were at Gallow Hill. I sat with him at intervals all the morning, and took down his stanzas. After tea I read W. the account I had written of the little boy belonging to the tall woman: and an unlucky thing it was, for he could not escape from those very words, and so he could not write the poem. He left it unfinished, and went tired to bed. In our walk from Rydal he had got warmed with the subject, and had half cast the poem."The following is the "account" written in her Journal on Tuesday, May 23, 1800:
"Sunday Morning (March 14). —William had slept badly. He got up at 9 o'clock, but before he rose he had finished the Beggar Boy."
"A very tall woman, tall much beyond the measure of tall women, called at the door. She had on a very long brown cloak, and a very white cap, without bonnet. Her face was brown, but it had plainly once been fair. She led a little barefooted child about two years old by the hand, and said her husband, who was a tinker, was gone before with the other children. I gave her a piece of bread. Afterwards, on my road to Ambleside, beside the bridge at Rydal, I saw her husband sitting at the roadside, his two asses standing beside him, and the two young children at play upon the grass. The man did not beg. I passed on, and about a quarter of a mile farther I saw two boys before me, one about ten, the other about eight years old, at play, chasing a butterfly. They were wild figures, not very ragged, but without shoes and stockings. The hat of the elder was wreathed round with yellow flowers; the younger, whose hat was only a rimless crown, had stuck it round with laurel leaves. They continued at play till I drew very near, and then they addressed me with the begging cant and the whining voice of sorrow. I said, 'I served your mother this morning' (the boys were so like the woman who had called at our door that I could not be mistaken). 'O,' says the elder, 'you could not serve my mother, for she's dead, and my father's in at the next town; he's a potter.' I persisted in my assertion, and that I would give them nothing. Says the elder, 'Come, let's away,' and away they flew like lightning. They had, however, sauntered so long in their road that they did not reach Ambleside before me, and I saw them go up to Mathew Harrison's house with their wallet upon the elder's shoulder, and creeping with a beggar's complaining foot. On my return through Ambleside I met, in the street, the mother driving her asses, in the two panniers of one of which were the two little children, whom she was chiding and threatening with a wand with which she used to drive on her asses, while the little things hung in wantonness over the pannier's edge. The woman had told me in the morning that she was of Scotland, which her accent fully proved, and that she had lived (I think at Wigtown); that they could not keep a house, and so they travelled."This was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| She had a tall man's height or more; Her face from summer's noontide heat No bonnet shaded, but she wore A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow, And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. Her skin was of Egyptian brown: Haughty, as if her eye had seen Its own light to a distance thrown, She towered, fit person for a Queen To lead those ancient Amazonian files; Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles. Advancing, forth she stretched her hand And begged an alms with doleful plea That ceased not; on our English land Such woes, I knew, could never be; And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature Was beautiful to see—a weed of glorious feature. I left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy A pair of little Boys at play, Chasing a crimson butterfly; The taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. The other wore a rimless crown With leaves of laurel stuck about; And, while both followed up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout, In their fraternal features I could trace Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit For finest tasks of earth or air: Wings let them have, and they might flit Precursors to Aurora's car, Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green. They dart across my path—but lo, Each ready with a plaintive whine! Said I, "not half an hour ago Your Mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered—"she is dead:"— I looked reproof—they saw—but neither hung his head. "She has been dead, Sir, many a day."— "Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie; It was your Mother, as I say!" And, in the twinkling of an eye, "Come! come!" cried one, and without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew! Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 |
B C |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 |
| 1845 | |
She had a tall Man's height, or more; |
1807 |
Before me as the Wanderer stood, |
1827 |
Before my eyes a Wanderer stood; |
1832 |
No bonnet shaded, nor the hood |
1836 |
She had a tall man's height or more; |
C. |
She had a tall man's height or more; |
C. |
| 1827 | |
In all my walks, through field or town, |
1807 |
Such figure had I never seen |
C. |
| 1836 | |
To head ... |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
Before me begging did she stand, |
1807 |
Her suit no faltering scruples checked; |
1827 |
She begged an alms; no scruple checked |
1832 |
Before me begging did she stand |
C. |
| 1807 | |
With yellow flowers around, as with a golden band. |
C. |
| 1827 | |
And they both ... |
1807 |
| 1820 | |
Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old; |
1807 |
| This stanza was added in the edition of 1827. |
| 1836 | |
Precursors of ... |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
They bolted on me thus, and lo! |
1807 |
| 1827 | |
"Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread." |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
"Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie; |
1807 |
... Heaven hears that rash reply; |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
... they both together flew. |
1807 |
... the thoughtless vagrants flew. |
C. |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Where are they now, those wanton Boys? For whose free range the dædal earth Was filled with animated toys, And implements of frolic mirth; With tools for ready wit to guide; And ornaments of seemlier pride, More fresh, more bright, than princes wear; For what one moment flung aside, Another could repair; What good or evil have they seen Since I their pastime witnessed here, Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer? I ask—but all is dark between! They met me in a genial hour, When universal nature breathed As with the breath of one sweet flower,— A time to overrule the power Of discontent, and check the birth Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, The most familiar bane of life Since parting Innocence bequeathed Mortality to Earth! Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, Sailed through the sky—the brooks ran clear; The lambs from rock to rock were bounding; With songs the budded groves resounding; And to my heart are still endeared The thoughts with which it then was cheered; The faith which saw that gladsome pair Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. Or, if such faith must needs deceive— Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, Associates in that eager chase; Ye, who within the blameless mind Your favourite seat of empire find— Kind Spirits! may we not believe That they, so happy and so fair Through your sweet influence, and the care Of pitying Heaven, at least were free From touch of deadly injury? Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, For mercy and immortal bloom? Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 |
Spirits of beauty and of grace! |
| 1836 | |
And to my heart is still endeared |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
... such thoughts ... |
1827 |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Stay near me—do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family! Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey:—with leaps and springs I followed on from brake to bush; But she, God love her! feared to brush The dust from off its wings. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
A |
5 10 15 |
"While we were at breakfast he" (William) "wrote the poem To a Butterfly. He ate not a morsel, but sate with his shirt neck unbuttoned, and his waistcoat open when he did it. The thought first came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we both always felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to chase them a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off their wings, and did not catch them. He told me how he used to kill all the white ones when he went to school, because they were Frenchmen. Mr. Simpson came in just as he was finishing the poem. After he was gone, I wrote it down, and the other poems, and I read them all over to him.... William began to try to alter The Butterfly, and tired himself."Compare the later poem To a Butterfly (2) (April 20), p. 297. —Ed.
"Tuesday (March 16).—William went up into the orchard, and wrote a part of The Emigrant Mother."This poem was included among those "founded on the Affections."—Ed.
"Wednesday.—William went up into the orchard, and finished the poem.... I went and sate with W., and walked backwards and forwards in the orchard till dinner-time. He read me his poem."
| stanza | text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned, In friendship she to me would often tell. |
||||
| This Lady, dwelling upon British ground, Where she was childless, daily would repair To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found, For sake of a young Child whose home was there. |
1 / 2 3 |
5 | ||
| Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace Such things as she unto the Babe might say: And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, My song the workings of her heart expressed. |
4 5 |
10 |
||
| I | "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, One moment let me be thy mother! An infant's face and looks are thine And sure a mother's heart is mine: Thy own dear mother's far away, At labour in the harvest field: Thy little sister is at play;— What warmth, what comfort would it yield To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be One little hour a child to me! |
15 20 |
||
| II | "Across the waters I am come, And I have left a babe at home: A long, long way of land and sea! Come to me—I'm no enemy: I am the same who at thy side Sate yesterday, and made a nest For thee, sweet Baby!—thou hast tried, Thou know'st the pillow of my breast; Good, good art thou:—alas! to me Far more than I can be to thee. |
25 30 |
||
| III | "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie; An infant thou, a mother I! Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; Mine art thou—spite of these my tears. Alas! before I left the spot, My baby and its dwelling-place; The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not Be shed upon an infant's face, It was unlucky'—no, no, no; No truth is in them who say so! |
35 40 |
||
| IV | "My own dear Little-one will sigh, Sweet Babe! and they will let him die. 'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom, And you may see his hour is come.' Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles, Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, And countenance like a summer's day, They would have hopes of him;—and then I should behold his face again! |
45 50 |
||
| V | "'Tis gone—like dreams that we forget; There was a smile or two—yet—yet I can remember them, I see The smiles, worth all the world to me. Dear Baby! I must lay thee down; Thou troublest me with strange alarms; Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms; For they confound me;—where—where is That last, that sweetest smile of his? |
6 7 8 |
55 60 |
|
| VI | "Oh! how I love thee!—we will stay Together here this one half day. My sister's child, who bears my name, From France to sheltering England came; She with her mother crossed the sea; The babe and mother near me dwell: Yet does my yearning heart to thee Turn rather, though I love her well: Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here! Never was any child more dear! |
9 10 |
65 70 |
|
| VII | "—I cannot help it; ill intent I've none, my pretty Innocent! I weep—I know they do thee wrong, These tears—and my poor idle tongue. Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek How cold it is! but thou art good; So Thine eyes are on me—they would speak, I think, to help me if they could. Blessings upon that soft, warm face, My heart again is in its place! |
11 12 |
75 80 |
|
| VIII | "While thou art mine, my little Love, This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, I seem to find them all in thee: Here's grass to play with, here are flowers; I'll call thee by my darling's name; Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, Thy features seem to me the same; His little sister thou shalt be; And, when once more my home I see, I'll tell him many tales of Thee." Contents 1802 Main Contents |
13 14 |
85 90 95 |
| 1807 | |
This Mother ... |
MS. |
| 1845 | |
... English ... |
1807 |
| 1827 | |
... did ... |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
Once did I see her clasp the Child about, |
1807 |
Once did I see her take with fond embrace |
1820 |
Once, having seen her take with fond embrace |
1827 |
| 1845 | |
And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd, |
1807 |
| 1820 | |
'Tis gone—forgotten—let me do |
1807 |
| 1827 | |
... sweet ... |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
For they confound me: as it is, |
1807 |
For they bewilder me—even now |
1820 |
By those bewildering glances crost |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
From France across the Ocean came; |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
My Darling, she is not to me |
1807 |
But to my heart she cannot be |
1836 |
| 1807 | |
And I grow happy while I speak, |
MS. |
| 1820 | |
... that quiet face, |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
A Joy, a Comforter thou art; |
MS. |
| 1807 | |
My yearnings are allayed by thee, |
MS. |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee! Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 |
| 1845 | |
While I am lying on the grass, |
1807 |
Thy loud note smites my ear!— |
1815 |
Thy loud note smites my ear! |
1820 |
Thy twofold shout I hear, |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
To me, no Babbler with a tale |
1807 |
I hear thee babbling to the Vale |
1815 |
But unto me .... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
No Bird; but an invisible Thing, |
1807 |
"Vox et praterea nihil. See Lipsius 'of the Nightingale.'"Barron Field.—Ed.
"A mild morning. William worked at the Cuckoo poem.... At the closing in of day, went to sit in the orchard. William came to me, and walked backwards and forwards. W. repeated the poem to me. I left him there; and in 20 minutes he came in, rather tired with attempting to write."It is therefore evident that it belongs to the year 1802; although it may have been altered and readjusted in 1804. The connection of the seventh stanza of this poem with the first of that which follows it, "My heart leaps up," etc., and of both with the Ode, Intimations of Immortality (vol. viii.), is obvious.—Ed.
"Friday (March 25).—A beautiful morning. William worked at The Cuckoo."
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| My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
A |
5 |
'The childhood shews the man,Dryden's All for Love, act IV. scene I:
As morning shews the day.'
'Men are but children of a larger growth.'And Pope's Essay on Man, Ep. iv. l. 175:
'The boy and man an individual makes.'Also Chatterton's Fragment (Aldine edition, vol. 1. p. 132):
'Nature in the infant marked the man.'Ed.
"March 26, 1802.—While I was getting into bed he" (W.) "wrote The Rainbow."(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.) This poem was known familiarly in the household as "The Rainbow," although not printed under that title. The text was never changed.
"May 14th.— ... William very nervous. After he was in bed, haunted with altering The Rainbow."
"Men laugh at the falsehoods imposed on them during their childhood, because they are not good and wise enough to contemplate the past in the present, and so to produce that continuity in their self-consciousness, which Nature has made the law of their animal life. Men are ungrateful to others, only when they have ceased to look back on their former selves with joy and tenderness. They exist in fragments."He then quotes the above poem, and adds:
"I am informed that these lines have been cited as a specimen of despicable puerility. So much the worse for the citer; not willingly in his presence would I behold the sun setting behind our mountains.... But let the dead bury their dead! The poet sang for the living.... I was always pleased with the motto placed under the figure of the rosemary in old herbals:Compare the passage in The Excursion (book ix. l. 36) beginning:'Sus, apage! Haud tibi spiro.'"
'... Ah! why in agealso that in The Prelude (book v. l. 507) beginning:
Do we revert so fondly, etc.'
'Our childhood sits.'
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| The Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
A |
5 10 15 20 |
"Friday, 16th April (Good Friday).—... When we came to the foot of Brothers Water, I left William sitting on the bridge, and went along the path on the right side of the lake through the wood. I was delighted with what I saw: the water under the boughs of the bare old trees, the simplicity of the mountains, and the exquisite beauty of the path. There was one grey cottage. I repeated The Glowworm as I walked along. I hung over the gate, and thought I could have stayed for ever. When I returned, I found William writing a poem descriptive of the sights and sounds we saw and heard. There was the gentle flowing of the stream, the glittering lively lake, green fields, without a living creature to be seen on them; behind us, a flat pasture with forty-two cattle feeding; to our left, the road leading to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone on the bare roofs. The people were at work, ploughing, harrowing, and sowing; lasses working; a dog barking now and then; cocks crowing, birds twittering; the snow in patches at the top of the highest hills; yellow palms, purple and green twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering stems quite bare. The hawthorn a bright green, with black stems under the oak. The moss of the oaks glossy.... As we went up the vale of Brothers Water, more and more cattle feeding, a hundred of them. William finished his poem before we got to the foot of Kirkstone. There were hundreds of cattle in the vale.... The walk up Kirkstone was very interesting. The becks among the rocks were all alive. William shewed me the little mossy streamlet which he had before loved, when he saw its bright green track in the snow. The view above Ambleside very beautiful. There we sate, and looked down on the green vale. We watched the crows at a little distance from us become white as silver, as they flew in the sunshine; and, when they went still farther, they looked like shapes of water passing over the green fields."Ed.
"A mild grey morning with rising vapours. We sate in the orchard. William wrote the poem on the Robin and the Butterfly.... W. met me at Rydal with the conclusion of the poem to the Robin. I read it to him in bed. We left out some lines."Ed.
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| Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, The pious bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English Robin; The bird that comes about our doors When Autumn-winds are sobbing? Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors? Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland? The bird, that by some name or other All men who know thee call their brother, The darling of children and men? Could Father Adam open his eyes And see this sight beneath the skies, He'd wish to close them again. —If the Butterfly knew but his friend, Hither his flight he would bend; And find his way to me, Under the branches of the tree: In and out, he darts about; Can this be the bird, to man so good, That, after their bewildering, Covered with leaves the little children, So painfully in the wood? What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful creature, That is gentle by nature? Beneath the summer sky From flower to flower let him fly; 'Tis all that he wishes to do. The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, He is the friend of our summer gladness: What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the sunny weather, And fly about in the air together! His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, A crimson as bright as thine own: Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, O pious Bird! whom man loves best, Love him, or leave him alone! Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 |
B C |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 |
| 1849 | |
... whom ... |
1807 |
... who ... |
1827 |
| 1815 | |
In and out, he darts about; |
1807 |
... Robin! Robin! |
MS. |
| 1832 | |
Did cover ... |
1807 |
| 1815 | |
... Like thine own breast |
MS. |
Like the hues of thy breast |
1807 |
... in the air together! |
1832 |
| 1836 | |
If thou would'st be ... |
1807 |
'And Robin Redbreasts whom men praise,Ed.
For pious birds.'
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| I've watch'd you now a full half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless!—not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again! This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 |
5 10 15 |
| 1807 | |
... short ... |
1836 |
| 1815 | |
Stop here whenever you are weary, |
1807 |
And feed ... |
MS. |
"William wrote a conclusion to the poem of The Butterfly, 'I've watch'd you now a full half-hour.'"This, and the structure of the two poems, makes it probable that the latter was originally meant to be a sort of conclusion to the former (p. 283); but they were always printed as separate poems.
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| That is work of waste and ruin— Do as Charles and I are doing! Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, We must spare them—here are many: Look at it—the flower is small, Small and low, though fair as any: Do not touch it! summers two I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the primrose, sister Anne! Pull as many as you can. —Here are daisies, take your fill; Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower: Of the lofty daffodil Make your bed, or make your bower; Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; Only spare the strawberry-blossom! Primroses, the Spring may love them— Summer knows but little of them: Violets, a barren kind, Withered on the ground must lie; Daisies leave no fruit behind When the pretty flowerets die; Pluck them, and another year As many will be blowing here. God has given a kindlier power To the favoured strawberry-flower. Hither soon as spring is fled You and Charles and I will walk; Lurking berries, ripe and red, Then will hang on every stalk, Each within its leafy bower; And for that promise spare the flower! Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 |
| 1815 | |
That is work which I am rueing— |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
... and ... |
1807 |
| 1815 | |
Violets, do what they will, |
1807 |
| This last stanza was added in the edition of 1815. |
| 1836 | |
When the months of spring are fled |
1815 |
"Wednesday, 28th April (1802).—Copied the Prioress's Tale. William was in the orchard. I went to him; he worked away at his poem, though he was ill, and tired. I happened to say that when I was a child I would not have pulled a strawberry blossom; I left him, and wrote out the Manciple's Tale. At dinner time he came in with the poem of Children gathering Flowers, but it was not quite finished, and it kept him long from his dinner. It is now done. He is working at The Tinker."At an earlier date in the same year,—Jan. 31st, 1802,—the following occurs:
"I found a strawberry blossom in a rock. The little slender flower had more courage than the green leaves, for they were but half expanded and half grown, but the blossom was spread full out. I uprooted it rashly, and I felt as if I had been committing an outrage; so I planted it again. It will have but a stormy life of it, but let it live if it can."With this poem compare a parallel passage in Marvel's The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers:
'But oh, young beauty of the woods,Ed.
Whom nature courts with fruits and flowers,
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
Lest Flora, angry at thy crime
To kill her infants in their prime,
Should quickly make the example yours;
And, ere we see,
Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee.'
"We came into the orchard directly after breakfast, and sat there. The lake was calm, the sky cloudy. William began to write the poem of The Celandine.... I walked backwards and forwards with William. He repeated his poem to me, then he got to work again, and would not give over."Ed.
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| Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine. Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! I'm as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little Flower!—I'll make a stir, Like a sage astronomer. Modest, yet withal an Elf Bold, and lavish of thyself; Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet 'Twas a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day. Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless Prodigal; Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none. Poets, vain men in their mood! Travel with the multitude: Never heed them; I aver That they all are wanton wooers; But the thrifty cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, Thou art come! Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, In the lane;—there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee. Ill befal the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours! Buttercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine! Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill-requited upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love! Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 |
B |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1836 | |
... great ... |
1807 |
| 1832 | |
... it's ... |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
Scorn'd and slighted ... |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
Singing at my heart's command, |
1807 |
'Drawn by what peculiar spell,In 1845 it was transferred to the following poem, where it will be found, with a change of text.—Ed.
By what charm for sight or smell,
Do those wingèd dim-eyed creatures,
Labourers sent from waxen cells,
Settle on thy brilliant features,
In neglect of buds and bells
Opening daily at thy side,
By the season multiplied?'
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| Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: February last, my heart First at sight of thee was glad; All unheard of as thou art, Thou must needs, I think, have had, Celandine! and long ago, Praise of which I nothing know. I have not a doubt but he, Whosoe'er the man might be, Who the first with pointed rays (Workman worthy to be sainted) Set the sign-board in a blaze, When the rising sun he painted, Took the fancy from a glance At thy glittering countenance. Soon as gentle breezes bring News of winter's vanishing, And the children build their bowers, Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould All about with full-blown flowers, Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold! With the proudest thou art there, Mantling in the tiny square. Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure, Sighed to think, I read a book Only read, perhaps, by me; Yet I long could overlook Thy bright coronet and Thee, And thy arch and wily ways, And thy store of other praise. Blithe of heart, from week to week Thou dost play at hide-and-seek; While the patient primrose sits Like a beggar in the cold, Thou, a flower of wiser wits, Slip'st into thy sheltering hold; Liveliest of the vernal train When ye all are out again. Drawn by what peculiar spell, By what charm of sight or smell, Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, Labouring for her waxen cells, Fondly settle upon Thee Prized above all buds and bells Opening daily at thy side, By the season multiplied? Thou art not beyond the moon, But a thing "beneath our shoon:" Let the bold Discoverer thrid In his bark the polar sea; Rear who will a pyramid; Praise it is enough for me, If there be but three or four Who will love my little Flower. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 |
| 1836 | |
... risen ... |
1807 |
| 1832 | |
... shelter'd ... |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
Bright as any of the train |
1807 |
| This stanza was added in 1845. (See note, p. 302.)] |
| 1845 | |
Let, as old Magellen did, |
1807 |
Let, with bold advent'rous skill, |
1820 |
Let the bold Adventurer thrid |
1827 |
"A heavenly morning. We went into the garden, and sowed the scarlet beans about the house. It was a clear sky. I sowed the flowers, William helped me. We then went and sat in the orchard till dinner time. It was very hot. William wrote The Celandine (second part). We planned a shed, for the sun was too much for us."Ed.
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| Within our happy Castle there dwelt One Whom without blame I may not overlook; For never sun on living creature shone Who more devout enjoyment with us took: Here on his hours he hung as on a book, On his own time here would he float away, As doth a fly upon a summer brook; But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, Seek for him,—he is fled; and whither none can say. Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, And find elsewhere his business or delight; Out of our Valley's limits did he roam: Full many a time, upon a stormy night, His voice came to us from the neighbouring height: Oft could we see him driving full in view At midday when the sun was shining bright; What ill was on him, what he had to do, A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. Ah! piteous sight it was to see this Man When he came back to us, a withered flower,— Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. Down would he sit; and without strength or power Look at the common grass from hour to hour: And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay; And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was Whenever from our Valley he withdrew; For happier soul no living creature has Than he had, being here the long day through. Some thought he was a lover, and did woo: Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong; But verse was what he had been wedded to; And his own mind did like a tempest strong Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along. With him there often walked in friendly guise, Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, A noticeable Man with large grey eyes, And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly As if a blooming face it ought to be; Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear, Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy; Profound his forehead was, though not severe; Yet some did think that he had little business here: Sweet heaven forefend! his was a lawful right; Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy; His limbs would toss about him with delight Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy. Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy To banish listlessness and irksome care; He would have taught you how you might employ Yourself; and many did to him repair,— And certes not in vain; he had inventions rare. Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried: Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay, Made, to his ear attentively applied, A pipe on which the wind would deftly play; Glasses he had, that little things display, The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, A mailed angel on a battle-day; The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold. He would entice that other Man to hear His music, and to view his imagery: And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear: No livelier love in such a place could be: There did they dwell-from earthly labour free, As happy spirits as were ever seen; If but a bird, to keep them company, Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 |
A B C |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 |
| 1836 | |
... did ... |
1815 |
| 1827 | |
The beetle with his radiance manifold, |
1815 |
| 1827 | |
And cups of flowers, and herbage green and gold; |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
And, sooth, these two did love each other dear, |
1815 |
'And oft he traced the uplands to survey,Beattie's Minstrel, book I, st. 20.
When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud.'
'And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climbBook I. st. 21. '
When all in mist the world below was lost.'
And of each gentle, and each dreadful sceneBook I. st. 22. Ed.
In darkness, and in storm, he found delight.'
'He is retired as noontide dew.'Ed.
"In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,"and adds
"That verse of Beattie's Minstrel always reminds me of him, and indeed the whole character of Edwin resembles much what William was when I first knew him after leaving Halifax."Mr. T. Hutchinson called the attention of Professor Dowden to the same resemblance between the two pictures. With lines 35, 36, compare in Shelley's Adonais, stanza xxxi.:
'And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,Ed.
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.'
"9th May (1802).-After tea he (W.) wrote two stanzas in the manner of Thomson's Castle of Indolence, and was tired out.From these extracts two things are evident,
"10th May.—William still at work, though it is past ten o'clock ... William did not sleep till three o'clock."
"11th May.—William finished the stanzas about C. and himself. He did not go out to-day. ... He completely finished his poem. He went to bed at twelve o'clock."
"October 10th.—I have passed a great many hours to-day with Wordsworth in his home. I stumbled on him with proof sheets before him. He read me nearly all the sweet stanzas written in his copy of the Castle of Indolence, describing himself and my uncle; and he and Mrs. W. both assured me the description of the latter at that time was perfectly accurate; and he was almost as a great boy in feelings, and had all the tricks and fancies there described. Mrs. W. seemed to look back on him, and those times, with the fondest affection."I think "the neighbouring height" referred to is the height of White Moss Common, behind the Fir-Grove, where Wordsworth was often heard murmuring out his verses," booing" as the country folks said: and the
'driving full in viewaptly describes his habits as recorded in his sister's Journal, and elsewhere. The "withered flower," the "creature pale and wan," are significant of those terrible reactions of spirit, which followed his joyous hours of insight and inspiration. Stanzas IV. to VII. of Resolution and Independence (p. 314), in which Wordsworth undoubtedly described himself, may be compared with stanza III. of this poem. The lines
At midday when the sun was shining bright,'
'Down would he sit; and without strength or powerare aptly illustrated by such passages in his sister's Journal, as the following, of 29th April 1802:
Look at the common grass from hour to hour,'
"We went to John's Grove, sate a while at first; afterwards William lay, and I lay in the trench, under the fence—he with his eyes closed, and listening to the waterfalls and the birds. There was no one waterfall above another—it was a kind of water in the air—the voice of the air. We were unseen by one another."Again, April 23rd,
"Coleridge and I pushed on before. We left William sitting on the stones, feasting with silence."And this recalls the first verse of Expostulation and Reply, written at Alfoxden in 1798;
Why, William, on that old grey stone,The retreat where "apple-trees in blossom made a bower," and where he so often "slept himself away," was evidently the same as that described in the poem The Green Linnet:
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?'
'Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shedOn the other hand, the "low-hung lip" and "profound" forehead of the other, the "noticeable Man with large grey eyes," mark him out as S. T. C.; "the rapt One, of the god-like forehead," described in the Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg. The description "Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy," is verified by what the poet and his wife said to Mr. Justice Coleridge in 1836. In addition, Mr. Hutchinson of Kimbolton tells me he "often heard his father say that Coleridge was uproarious in his mirth."
Their snow white blossoms on my head.'
"When one looks uneasily at a poem it is easy to fidget oneself further, and neither the Wordsworth nor the Coleridge of our common notions seem to be exactly hit off in the Stanzas; still, I believe that the first described is Wordsworth and that the second described is Coleridge. I have myself heard Wordsworth speak of his prolonged exhausting wanderings among the hills. Then Miss Fenwick's notes show that Coleridge is certainly one of the two personages of the poem, and there are points in the description of the second man which suit him very well. The profound forehead is a touch akin to the god-like forehead in the mention of Coleridge in a later poem.In 1796 Coleridge wrote to his friend Cottle from Nether Stowey:
"I have a sort of recollection of having heard something about the inventions rare, and Coleridge is certain to have dabbled, at one time or other, in natural philosophy."
" ... I should not think of devoting less than 20 years to an Epic Poem: ten to collect materials and warm my mind with universal science. I would be a tolerable Mathematician, I would thoroughly know Mechanics, Hydrostatics, Optics, and Astronomy, Botany, Metallurgy, Fossilism, Chemistry, Geology, Anatomy, Medicine—then the mind of man—then the minds of men—in all Travels, Voyages, and Histories. So I would spend ten years—the next five to the composition of the poem—and the last five to the correction of it. So would I write, haply not unhearing of the divine and rightly whispering Voice," etc.Mr. T. Hutchinson (Dublin) writes in The Athenæum, Dec. 15, 1894:
"I take it for granted these lines were written, not only on the fly-leaf of Wordsworth's copy of the Castle of Indolence, but also by way of Supplement to that poem; i. e. as an addendum to the descriptive list of the denizens of the Castle given in stanzas LVII-LXIX of Canto I.; that, in short, they are meant to be read as though they were an after-thought of James Thomson's. Their author, therefore, has rightly imparted to them the curiously blended flavour of romantic melancholy and slippered mirth, of dreamlike vagueness and smiling hyperbole, which forms the distinctive mark of Thomson's poem; and thus the Poet and the Philosopher-Friend of Wordsworth's stanzas, like Thomson's companion sketches of the splenetic Solitary, the bard more fat than bard beseems, and the little, round, fat, oily Man of God, are neither more nor less than gentle caricatures."It has been suggested by Coleridge's grandson that Wordsworth was describing S. T. C. in all the stanzas of this poem; that he drew two separate pictures of him; in the first four stanzas a realistic "character portrait," and in the last four a "companion picture, figuring the outward semblance of Coleridge, but embodying characteristics drawn from a third person"; so that we have a "fancy sketch" mixed up with a real one. I cannot agree with this. The evidence against it is
"When William and I returned from accompanying Jones, we met an old man almost double. He had on a coat thrown over his shoulders above his waistcoat and coat. Under this he carried a bundle, and had an apron on, and a night-cap. His face was interesting. He had dark eyes, and a long nose. John, who afterwards met him at Wytheburn, took him for a Jew. He was of Scotch parents, but had been born in the army. He had had a wife, 'and a good woman, and it pleased God to bless him with ten children.' All these were dead but one, of whom he had not heard for many years, a sailor. His trade was to gather leeches; but now leeches were scarce, and he had not strength for it. He lived by begging, and was making his way to Carlisle where he would buy a few books to sell. He said leeches were very scarce, partly owing to this dry season; but many years they had been scarce. He supposed it was owing to their being much sought after; that they did not breed fast; and were of slow growth. Leeches were formerly 2s. 6d. the 100; now they were 30s. He had been hurt in driving a cart, his leg broken, his body driven over, his skull fractured. He felt no pain till he recovered from his first insensibility. It was late in the evening, when the light was just going away."It is most likely that this walk of William and Dorothy Wordsworth "accompanying Jones," was on the day of Jones's departure from Dove Cottage, viz. 26th September.
"Tuesday, 4th May, 1802.—Though William went to bed nervous and jaded in the extreme, he rose refreshed. I wrote out The Leech-Gatherer for him, which he had begun the night before, and of which he wrote several stanzas in bed this morning...."From these extracts it is clear that Dorothy Wordsworth considered the poem as "finished" on the 7th of May, and on the 9th she sent a copy to Coleridge; but that it was not till the 4th of July that it was really finished, and then a second copy was forwarded to Coleridge. It is impossible to say from which of the two MSS. sent to him Coleridge transcribed the copy which he forwarded to Sir George Beaumont. From that copy of a copy (which is now amongst the Beaumont MSS. at Coleorton) the various readings given, on Coleridge's authority, in the notes to the poem, were obtained some years ago.
(They started to walk up the Raise to Wytheburn.)
"It was very hot; we rested several times by the way, read, and repeated The Leech-Gatherer."
"Friday, 7th May.—William had slept uncommonly well, so, feeling himself strong, he fell to work at The Leech-Gatherer; he wrote hard at it till dinner time, then he gave over, tired to death—he had finished the poem."
"Sunday morning, 9th May.—William worked at The Leech-Gatherer almost incessantly from morning till tea-time. I copied The Leech-Gatherer and other poems for Coleridge. I was oppressed and sick at heart, for he wearied himself to death."
"Sunday, 4th July.—... William finished The Leech-Gatherer to-day."
"Monday, 5th July.—I copied out The Leech-Gatherer for Coleridge, and for us."
| stanza | text | variant | footnote | line number |
| I | There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising calm and bright; The birds are singing in the distant woods; Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. |
5 |
||
| II | All things that love the sun are out of doors; The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors The hare is running races in her mirth; And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun, Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. |
1 |
10 |
|
| III | I was a Traveller then upon the moor; I saw the hare that raced about with joy; I heard the woods and distant waters roar; Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: The pleasant season did my heart employ: My old remembrances went from me wholly; And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. |
15 20 |
||
| IV | But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might Of joy in minds that can no further go, As high as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low; To me that morning did it happen so; And fears and fancies thick upon me came; Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. |
25 |
||
| V | I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; And I bethought me of the playful hare: Even such a happy Child of earth am I; Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; Far from the world I walk, and from all care; But there may come another day to me— Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. |
2 3 |
30 35 |
|
| VI | My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, As if life's business were a summer mood; As if all needful things would come unsought To genial faith, still rich in genial good; But how can He expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? |
4 |
A |
40 |
| VII | I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain-side: By our own spirits are we deified: We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. |
5 6 7 |
45 |
|
| VIII | Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, A leading from above, a something given, Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place, When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven I saw a Man before me unawares: The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. [12] |
8 9 10 11 12 |
50 55 |
|
| IX | As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence; Wonder to all who do the same espy, By what means it could thither come, and whence; So that it seems a thing endued with sense: Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; |
13 14 |
60 |
|
| X | Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, Nor all asleep—in his extreme old age: His body was bent double, feet and head Coming together in life's pilgrimage; As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage Of sickness felt by him in times long past, A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. |
15 16 |
65 70 |
|
| XI | Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood: And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, Upon the margin of that moorish flood Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, That heareth not the loud winds when they call; And moveth all together, if it move at all. |
17 18 19 20 |
75 |
|
| XII | At length, himself unsettling, he the pond Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water, which he conned, As if he had been reading in a book: And now a stranger's privilege I took; And, drawing to his side, to him did say, "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." |
21 |
80 |
|
| XIII | A gentle answer did the old Man make, In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: And him with further words I thus bespake, "What occupation do you there pursue? This is a lonesome place for one like you." Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. |
22 23 24 |
B |
85 90 |
| XIV | His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, But each in solemn order followed each, With something of a lofty utterance drest— Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men; a stately speech; Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. |
25 26 27 |
95 |
|
| XV | He told, that to these waters he had come To gather leeches, being old and poor: Employment hazardous and wearisome! And he had many hardships to endure: From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance; And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. |
28 29 |
100 105 |
|
| XVI | The old Man still stood talking by my side; But now his voice to me was like a stream Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; And the whole body of the Man did seem Like one whom I had met with in a dream; Or like a man from some far region sent, To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. |
30 31 |
110 |
|
| XVII | My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; And hope that is unwilling to be fed; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; And mighty Poets in their misery dead. —Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, My question eagerly did I renew, "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" |
32 33 34 |
115 |
|
| XVIII | He with a smile did then his words repeat; And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide He travelled; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the pools where they abide. "Once I could meet with them on every side; But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." |
35 36 |
120 125 |
|
| XIX | While he was talking thus, the lonely place, The old Man's shape, and speech—all troubled me: In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pursued, He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. |
130 |
||
| XX | And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, But stately in the main; and when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn to find In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!" Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
37 38 |
135 140 |
| 1827 | |
... which, ... |
1807 |
| 1820 | |
... singing ... |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
... happy ... |
MS. 1802. |
| 1807 | |
And they who lived in genial faith found nought |
MS. 1802. |
| 1815 | |
... who perished in his pride; |
MS. 1802. |
... that perished in its pride; |
1807 |
| 1820 | |
Behind his plough, upon the mountain-side: |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
... comes ... |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
... was ... |
MS. 1802. |
| 1807 | |
... that ... |
MS. 1802. |
| 1820 | |
When up and down my fancy thus was driven, |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
I spied ... |
MS. 1802. |
| date | |
My course I stopped as soon as I espied |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
... that ... |
MS. 1802. |
| 1820 | |
... which ... |
1807 |
| 1820 | |
... in their pilgrimage |
And MS. 1802. |
| 1807 | |
... his age ... |
MS. 1802. |
| 1836 | |
Himself he propp'd, both body, limbs, and face, |
MS. 1802. |
... his body, ... |
1807 |
| 1820 | |
Beside the little pond or moorish flood |
1807 |
| date | |
... moves ... |
MS. 1802. |
He wore a Cloak the same as women wear |
This stanza appeared only in MS. 1802. |
| 1820 | |
And now such freedom as I could I took; |
1807 |
| 1820 | |
"What kind of work is that which you pursue? |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
... for such as ... |
MS. |
| 1836 | |
He answer'd me with pleasure and surprize; |
1807 and MS. 1802 |
He answered, while a flash of mild surprise |
1820 |
| 1820 | |
Yet ... |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
... pompous .... |
MS. 1802. |
| 1807 | |
...words ... |
MS. |
...beyond ... |
MS. 1802. |
| 1827 | |
He told me that he to the pond had come |
MS. 1802. |
... this pond ... |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
This was his calling, better far than some, |
MS. 1802. |
| 1807 | |
But soon ... |
MS. 1802. |
| 1827 | |
... and strong admonishment. |
1807 |
... by strong admonishment. |
1820 |
| 1815 | |
The ... |
1807 |
| 1820 | |
And now, not knowing what the Old Man had said, |
1807 and MS. 1802 |
But now, perplex'd by what the Old Man had said, |
1815 |
| 1807 | |
... live? what is it that you do?" |
MS. 1802. |
| 1827 | |
And said, that wheresoe'er they might be spied |
MS. 1802 |
And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
Once he could meet with them on every side; |
MS. 1802. |
| 1807 | |
And now ... |
MS. 1802. |
| 1807 | |
Which he delivered with demeanour kind, |
MS. 1802. |
... hither side, |
MS. 1802. |
He all the while before me being full in view. |
MS. 1802. |
'Some inward trouble suddenlyEd.
Broke from the Matron's strong black eye—
A remnant of uneasy light,
A flash of something over-bright!'
"It is not a matter of indifference whether you are pleased with his figure and employment, it may be comparatively whether you are pleased with this Poem; but it is of the utmost importance that you should have had pleasure in contemplating the fortitude, independence, persevering spirit, and the general moral dignity of this old man's character." Again, "I will explain to you, in prose, my feelings in writing that poem.... I describe myself as having been exalted to the highest pitch of delight by the joyousness and beauty of nature; and then as depressed, even in the midst of those beautiful objects, to the lowest dejection and despair. A young poet in the midst of the happiness of nature is described as overwhelmed by the thoughts of the miserable reverses which have befallen the happiest of all men, viz. poets. I think of this till I am so deeply impressed with it, that I consider the manner in which I was rescued from my dejection and despair almost as an interposition of Providence. A person reading the poem with feelings like mine will have been awed and controlled, expecting something spiritual or supernatural. What is brought forward? A lonely place, 'a pond, by which an old man was, far from all house or home:' not stood, nor sat, but was—the figure presented in the most naked simplicity possible. This feeling of spirituality or supernaturalness is again referred to as being strong in my mind in this passage. How came he here? thought I, or what can he be doing? I then describe him, whether ill or well is not for me to judge with perfect confidence; but this I can confidently affirm, that though I believe God has given me a strong imagination, I cannot conceive a figure more impressive than that of an old man like this, the survivor of a wife and ten children, travelling alone among the mountains and all lonely places, carrying with him his own fortitude and the necessities which an unjust state of society has laid upon him. You speak of his speech as tedious. Every thing is tedious when one does not read with the feelings of the author. The Thorn is tedious to hundreds; and so is The Idiot Boy to hundreds. It is in the character of the old man to tell his story, which an impatient reader must feel tedious. But, good heavens! such a figure, in such a place; a pious, self-respecting, miserably infirm and pleased old man telling such a tale!"Ed.
"Was it the letter to Mary and Sara" (Hutchinson) "about The Leech-Gatherer, mentioned in Dorothy's Journal of 14th June 1802?"Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| I grieved for Buonaparté, with a vain And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood Of that Man's mind—what can it be? what food Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain? 'Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. Wisdom doth live with children round her knees: Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk Of the mind's business: these are the degrees By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 |
5 10 |
| 1837 | |
grief! the vital blood |
1802 |
... grief! for, who aspires |
1815 |
"May 21.—W. wrote two sonnets on Buonaparte, after I had read Milton's sonnets to him."The "irregular" sonnet, written "at school," to which Wordsworth refers, is probably the one published in the European Magazine. in 1787, vol. xi. p. 202, and signed Axiologus.—Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground, Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair Of that magnificent temple which doth bound One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare; Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, Farewell!—we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care, Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround. Our boat is safely anchored by the shore, And there will safely ride when we are gone; The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door Will prosper, though untended and alone: Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none: These narrow bounds contain our private store Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon; Here are they in our sight—we have no more. Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell! For two months now in vain we shall be sought; We leave you here in solitude to dwell With these our latest gifts of tender thought; Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell! Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, And placed together near our rocky Well. We go for One to whom ye will be dear; And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed, Our own contrivance, Building without peer! —A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, Will come to you; to you herself will wed; And love the blessed life that we lead here. Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed, Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own. Making all kindness registered and known; Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed, Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show To them who look not daily on thy face; Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, And say'st, when we forsake thee, "Let them go!" Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, And travel with the year at a soft pace. Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best; Joy will be flown in its mortality; Something must stay to tell us of the rest. Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast Glittered at evening like a starry sky; And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, Of which I sang one song that will not die. O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep Hath been so friendly to industrious hours; And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers; Two burning months let summer overleap, And, coming back with Her who will be ours, Into thy bosom we again shall creep. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1836 | |
And safely she will ride ... |
1815 |
... will she ... |
1832 |
| 1836 | |
... that decorate our door |
1815 |
| 1820 | |
She'll come ... |
1815 |
| 1827 | |
... which ... |
1815 |
| 1827 | |
... in ... |
1815 |
| 1832 | |
... sung ... |
1815 |
"May 29.—William finished his poem on going for Mary. I wrote it out. A sweet day. We nailed up the honeysuckle and hoed the scarlet beans."She added on the 31st,
"I wrote out the poem on our departure, which he seemed to have finished;"and on June 13th,
"William has been altering the poem to Mary this morning."The "little Nook of mountain-ground" is in much the same condition now, as it was in 1802. The "flowering shrubs" and the "rocky well" still exist, and "the steep rock's breast" is "thronged with primroses" in spring. The "bower" is gone; but, where it used to be, a seat is now erected.